


A Prince of Fire

by Valyanamie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, I have only mentioned the important characters, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 53,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valyanamie/pseuds/Valyanamie
Summary: Following the Rebellion and the noble death of Rhaegar, the queen Rhaella Targaryen flees to Dragonstone with her last living son and two grandchildren.After years spent in foreign lands, the remnants of House Targaryen seek to reclaim their lost throne and legacy. This time with the help of three dragons.All the while they gather strength and forces in Essos the threat in the North keeps on rising, and the many lords of Westeros continue to play their idle game of thrones.





	1. The Queen’s Return

**Author's Note:**

> This work’s timeline begins in Meereen and will eventually reach to Westeros, although I plan on having a drastically different ending compared to the show. I have just finished A Feast for Crows and felt inspired enough to write. Also, I need therapy after the finale.  
> I remind you that this is set in an ALTERNATE universe, so many things might be changed. Also, the characters’ appearances and ages will mostly be in sync with the books.

 

Even within the pyramid’s gloom safety, the last haven left in the city, the walls trembled. In the darkness one could see nothing but raining fire, tumbling from the sky and onto the houses of citizens below, setting some aflame. One could hear screams mingling with the rumbles of the attack, and in the night it was difficult to glimpse the fleet on the waters that floated dangerously close to the land. They were outnumbered, and Aegon could do nothing but watch, helplessly, as the chaos ensued. 

When had been the last time he had felt so helpless? He felt as if he was at the ocean’s mercy, being flung back and forth by crude, cold waves; allowing the tides to toss him about, and feeling the salt water burn his lungs. He couldn’t breathe —

Five years ago. _Yes_. The last time he had felt so helpless had been five years ago, when he had been nothing but a boy, barely a man, of fifteen with no wealth and no lands. Like Daenerys, he had owned nothing but a name – and he had felt so utterly alone in a world that had tried to have him killed more than once. Then, in a span of few years they had received everything; the riches and wealth, including the hope that had once seemed so frail. Daenerys had won it back for them. She and her children.

But Daenerys was not with them now, and the city was falling.

Another rumble rattled close by, and Rhaenys’ grip on his hand tightened. She was frightened, like so many others. She hadn’t been afraid in a long time, and Aegon did not blame her. She was fearful of losing. She had lost too much.

In some ways he could relate to her, more than others perhaps, but there were things he could never come tounderstand. He did not remember his father, and all he could recall from his mother was a blurred face and a gentle smile. Rhaenys _did_ remember their parents, however, and Aegon wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing. It only made things more painful, and yet they were very familiar with pain. It was strange they hadn’t gotten used to it now.

_“Father used to sing to me,” she had once told him, her fingers threading through his fine, silvery hair. “He would let me sit on his lap and pluck the strings from his harp. He’d laugh and say I was the finest musician in the land, and he called me ‘little-rain’. . .”_

A loud explosion rung dangerously close by, so close that the floor beneath them shook. 

 _“Whenever I would get nightmares he’d let me crawl into bed with him and mother. He’d hold me close, and promise that no harm would ever come to me. That he would die before he would_   _let that happen.”_

Aegon pulled Rhaenys closer, so that her bosom was pressed against his side. But their father _was_ dead, and harm had fallen upon both of them. Aegon could only wonder what Rhaegar would do if he would hear the horrors that had come to them. 

Aegon had perhaps once, in his deepest and darkest nightmares, dreamt of defeat. However, he had dreamed of it upon the shores of his homeland – mounting a dragon whose breath had already combusted thousand of enemy soldiers, and laid waste to great lands that belonged to his foes.

He had dreamt of a valiant death, perhaps one much alike his noble father’s, and that his fall would be sung of for generations to come. In admiration and awe. Not now. Not like _this_. 

“I was wrong, I admit it.” A voice echoed through the halls, drawing attention from everyone in the room, although only Aegon and Rhaenys turned their heads towards the entrance. Soon enough, Tyrion Lannister entered the room accompanied by Missandei. Her graceful strides differed greatly from the imp’s recognisable waddle.

”That changes nothing,” Missandei’s soft voice replied curtly. 

The two immediately noticed the two Targaryens standing in the centre of the room, and Missandei at the very least was courteous enough to offer them a bow of her head. Tyrion, however, looked more abashed than anything. Aegon watched him, calculatingly, for a moment.

He remembered the first time the imp had been brought to them, by Ser Jorah. Jon Connington had advised, almost too eagerly, to execute both of the men; and said he would be honoured to do the duty himself. Daenerys had the patience to let Tyrion speak, and although Aegon was hesitant to admit so: the dwarf’s words had been impressive.

That didn’t change the fact that he was a _Lannister_ though. But there was nothing Aegon could do. Daenerys liked him, for some reason, and the dwarf was not to be killed.  Another rumble interrupted. Only then did he speak: 

“What do you suggest we do?”

Grey Worm was the one to answer for him, “He cannot tell us what to do, he doesn’t know what to do.”  

“None of us know what to do.” Aegon gritted out. Another rumble thrummed in the distance, and this time Aegon cringed at the sound of it.

Tyrion visibly swallowed. “I say we send the Unsullied to the beach, they could mount a defence, if—“

”The Unsullied will stay here,” Rhaenys said, her eyes darting around the room. “The attack will eventually reach the pyramid, they should be _here_ to defend it.”

”So we wait for them to come to us?” Tyrion asked, squirming, “I apologise, Princess, but isn’t it better to admit defeat before the city turns into ruins rather than after it does?”

”The city is already in ruins,” Aegon said, looking out to see the rain of flames in the sky. The last of the sun’s rays were slipping as dusk was falling. He doubted they’d make it to the morning. His next words came out of his mouth unwillingly, “we’ve lost.”

The words were not said in bitterness but defeat. They rung with truth. Only a miracle could save them now, and he had learned long ago that the world was short of miracles. The silence that followed was tense. 

He thought of Daenerys, of where in the world she was and if she’d ever return. Whether she was dead or dying, or if she had abandoned them to fly upon Drogon towards the end of the world. _No._ Daenerys would not abandon them. She had done many wrongs, but abandoning her people would never be one of them. 

 _At least she’s safe from. . . whatever we should call this_ , he thought to himself, returning the tight grip Rhaenys had on his hand. He had lost a lot throughout his twenty years of living, more than many and less than some. However, he never thought he’d lose _this_. This _one_ thing he had ever truly owned. 

He wondered where Jon was, whether he had succeeded in trying to get Dorne’s allegiance, or whether he too was dead like some of the few father figures in Aegon’s life. He tried not to think of it, tried his best to stay positive and hope that Jon had managed to gain the support of his mother’s people, but it was difficult in the dire situation they were currently stuck in. 

Maybe—

Then, suddenly, the ceiling above them shook, causing the floor to tremble along with it. All of them looked up, aghast, as silence settled. Agitation hovered through the room, along with tension and sparks of anxiousness. Had it simply been a good aim of attack or something else?

Soon enough, footsteps echoed, and in perfect sync everyone went into position. Aegon put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Missandei grabbed a dagger that lay abandoned and went to stand beside Tyrion. The Unsullied in the room gripped their spears tightly. Rhaenys, unarmed, moved to stand behind Aegon, her grip on his forearm strong. There was a strange look in her eyes, one that spoke if both fear and courage. 

Slowly, one of the Unsullied - Marselen - approached the doors that lead to the balcony. The silence in the room hung upon a loose thread, threatening to tear by the smallest of impact. Perhaps it was the end. Not the most noble or heroic end, but an end nonetheless. It didn’t matter. The door creaked open and all of them were prepared for whatever battle they had to face. 

But to many of their amazement, Marselen bowed deeply onto his knees, and through the doors strode in Daenerys Stormborn. 

 

 

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Daenerys was many things. In foreign lands, people spoke of her being a fair woman, with hair of the purest, shimmering silver and haunting amethyst eyes. That she was the most beautiful woman to have ever walked the world, and she had personally birthed her three dragons through dark rituals of witchcraft and deep magic.

Others said she was nothing but a girl, a pretender, whose dragons were nothing but mere wyverns and her name was a fraud. That the blood of old Valyria was long gone, lost to the world, and that none still lived to carry on its legacy. 

Many believed she was a saviour, a Conqueror, sent down by whatever gods they prayed to to free the world of tyrants and evil. That she had come to bring mercy and good-will to those who had been hurt, and bring vengeance to those who had harmed them. To some she was _Mhysa_. Some dared whisper she was _Azor Ahai_. 

But to Aegon – Daenerys was nothing but, well, Daenerys.

 _Dany_. Dany with her big eyes and kind smile. Dany with laughter that sounded like ringing bells. Dany who was both gentle and strong, who had mastered the fine line between justice and mercy. Dany. _Dany_. 

The little girl who was now a queen, and not so little anymore. 

Her silence cut deeper than any words ever could. She regarded all of them carefully, her gaze lingering on Aegon for a second longer, before settling upon Tyrion. If Aegon would have looked upon this woman that called herself queen five years ago he would not have recognised her as Daenerys. 

Then, unable to restrain himself, Aegon approached her with staggering steps. Only when he was close enough did he allow himself to crumble into her arms, and there she held him. She smelled the same – if not a little wilder – but the figure he was hugging was without doubt Daenerys. She was no illusion. No trickery of his mind. She was _here_. 

“You’re alive,” he whispered into her ear, stunned. He felt her smile against his neck. 

“I’m alive.”

And for a moment, that was all that seemed to matter. In the heart of a second he forgot where he stood, and that there were eyes upon them. Then, another blow to the pyramid ruined their reunion, and they parted, though no further than an arm’s reach away. Her amethyst gaze turned from warm to cold again, and she coolly assessed Tyrion. 

Only a handful of people had felt her anger, very few her wrath. Most of them did not fare well after her judgement, and their fates were often cruel. Aegon had a few names. _Viserys_ sung in the back of his mind. . .

“Leave us,” she said, her words directed to the Unsullied and Missandei. Like tides they all swept away; leaving nothing behind but silence and the distant roars of attack. It would be a long night. Rhaenys eventually approached them, offering Daenerys a tight hug, before  moving to stand beside her. The three of them waited for Tyrion to speak first. He eventually did: 

“I welcome you back, my queen.”

”I trusted all of you to hold the city,” she commented, not idly, and furrowed her brows. “Not lay waste to it.”

His eyes went down to his feet and then back up. “Well, to be fair, the city’s on a rise–“ he was cut off by an explosion close by. It shook the floor, and Rhaeny’s soft gasp of surprise rung through the room. 

Daenerys raised a brow. “The city’s on a _rise_?”

“Meereen is strong. . .” He hesitated, but was gracious enough to offer her a smile. “Commoners have returned to the markets, the people are behind you, they have begun to accept their new Queen–“ Suddenly, a window close by burst, and Rhaenys shrieked as she grabbed for Aegon, who went to Daenerys’ defence. 

“Well, not _all_ the people,” Tyrion corrected himself, “no ruler that ever lived has had the support of all the people. But the rebirth of Meereen is the cause of this violence.“ He approached them, “the Masters _cannot_ let Meereen succeed. Because if Meereen succeeds, a city without slavery is. . . well, a city without masters.”

The imp had a point, and a good one. Another rumble echoed, followed by two shorter ones. 

“It proves no one needs a master,” Tyrion at last managed to finish.

Silence returned for a short moment and Daenerys regarded him carefully. It was still obvious that Daenerys was willing to offer Tyrion another chance, but she could not deny he had made a mistake. 

But hadn’t they all, at some point? Viserys certainly had, too lost in his mind, and although none of them regretted having not stopped his pitiful fate- they did, in an odd way, miss him. He had not always been the way he was, Aegon recalled a time when he had been kind; and Rhaenys remembered a boy, not so different from himself, willing to protect them. _Promising_ to return all of them home. Losing Tyrion would be a wrong move, but trusting him with an important decision again would be an unwise one. 

Daenerys’ violet eyes at last met Aegon’s, and then in high Valyrian she said:

”The two of you will go to my children beneath the Great Pyramid,” for a second, Aegon’s heart leapt in his chest, and Rhaenys’ grip on his hand loosened. “You will unbind them. Set them free.”

Aegon couldn’t breathe, and he could feel Rhaenys’ excitement as well. _Viserion_ was all he could think of. The sweet dragon who had once fit in the palms of his hands. The dragon that was often seen perched upon his shoulder, until he had become too big for Aegon to carry. Viserion – poor Viserion who had been left chained in the dark. . . 

”Now. . .” Daenerys said, pulling Aegon from his thoughts, and taking a step forward. “Shall we begin?”

Tyrion looked confused, a little startled even. “Do we have a plan?”

“I will crucify the masters,” Daenerys said, almost too bluntly. “I will set their fleets afire. Kill every last one of their soldiers and return their cities to the dirt.” She paused, allowing the three of them a moment to absorb her words, before adding coldly: “ _That_ is my plan.”

A cruel one. It made Aegon uneasy, and admire her just a little more. There was mercy in her name, but also justice. _This dragon queen that wears her mantle is a true Targaryen_. . . She noticed that by their expressions they did not wholly agree with her merciless idea, but her words were only directed at the Lannister: “You don’t approve?”

”You once told me you know what your father was,” Tyrion reminded her, and Aegon noticed the heat within her gaze faltered. As if the fire was being blown out. It was a weak spot of hers, her father. “Did you know his plans for King’s Landing when the Lannister army were at his gates?”

All three of them looked at him stunned. Not many had spoken to them of the Mad King, no one except for Viserys who now was long gone, and he had only spoken of his father highly. Jon Connington had served as Aerys’ hand for a short time, but whenever Aegon had asked him of his grandfather Jon had always found a way to talk about Rhaegar. Rhaenys had only remembered a blurred face, a cruel voice, but that was all: 

“Probably not,” Tyrion continued, his eyes darting to the ground, though only for a second. “Well he told my brother and Jamie told me. He had caches of wildfire hidden beneath the Red Keep. The guild holds, the Sept of Baelor– all the major thoroughfares.”

 _Wildfire_. Not much was known about it, but one thing Aegon did know was the damage it could do. 

”He would have burned every one of the citizens, the loyal one and the traitors. Every man woman and child. _That’s_ why Jamie killed—“

Then, anger finally took ahold of Aegon and he came to Daenerys’ defence: “This is _entirely_ different.” 

“Talking about destroying cities, it’s not entirely different.” 

“Your father is not so innocent either, Tyrion Lannister,” he said, stunning the dwarf in return. “Shall I sing for you the Rains of Castamere? Or remind you that he ordered my mother killed – he ordered me and my sister killed – a mother and her  _children_ butchered—“

”A decision that many disagreed with,” Tyrion said, though there was sadness in his eyes. “Jamie certainly did. Did you know the nightmares he has, almost every night? Of Rhaegar, torn and bloody, reminding him of the oath he swore. The oath to protect you. The oath he failed to fulfil.”

Rhaenys’ right eye twitched and her pretty face was pulled into a frown. Both her and Aegon had little reason to pity the kingslayer, “Jamie Lannister has many oaths he has failed to fulfil.”

Tyrion bowed his head and was silent for a moment. “Then must I remind you that it was _I_ that murdered my father, Tywin Lannister?”

Aegon didn’t say anything for a while. 

“We can’t go on and destroy every city that belong to our enemies—“

“ _They’re_ the ones destroying _this_  city.” Aegon said coldly.

”So we should stop them,” Tyrion said, reasonably, and silenced the prince. His mismatched eyes met Daenerys’ and there was a begging look to them. He was _pleading_. “I’d like to suggest an alternate approach.”


	2. Lord Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is both haunted by his death and his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said in the first chapter, this story is set in an Alternate Universe, and therefore there are drastic changes made to the story, much different than from the show.

The wind danced wildly outside, whispering an old tune through the abyss of the night. It was both haunting and melodic, like the voices of the old gods. Those that were long lost and forgotten to most.

Even by the fire’s warm hearth Jon felt cold. His head was bent forward, as if he was weary, and he supposed he was. He _felt_ exhausted;drained, but above all he felt defeated. Like a hollow shell of a man, only a whispering reflection of what he used to be. 

As the night stretched on and the temperature continued to drop, the red flames before him started to appear blue. He was reminded of dead-dagger eyes, and skin that looked transparent to the touch. Of terrors that dwelled in the far North, and how the Wall was the only thing that stood between them and _it_.

He had seen things that others would have deemed impossible – _done_ things that should have been impossible. His mind wandered to the torn up villages, to the scattered remains of corpses and the emotive eyes of dead women and children. _Children_. 

He shivered. 

The cold should _not_ have bothered him as much as it did to others. As a child, he had been almost immune to the biting winter winds. He liked to imagine that it was the Stark blood in his veins, the _wolf_ blood, that carried the heart of winter with it. But some liked to argue that no one could truly get used to the cold. Jon wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, frowning. Perhaps they were right. 

 _They_ had laughed. Laughed as he had fought, as he had been tossed around and turned; bled and struggled. Their laughter had been cruel, as sharp as ice; and it had struck him as deep as the frost. He still felt it, rooted in his bones. It was an itch he could not be rid of, and followed him wherever he’d go. 

All he could do was wait and dread. The nights only got colder. And _longer_. . .

Winter is coming, his father had always said. _What now_? Jon wanted to ask him. _What do we do now that Winter is here_?

“Where will you go?” Someone asked. Jon did not startle, although he had not heard anyone enter. The voice was familiar although, and Jon did not need to to turn to know who it belonged to. He did anyway. 

When he met the other’s gaze, however, he regretted it, for he saw nothing but pity. Jon _hated_ it. Hated being pitied. He who had been pitied most of his life. 

Edd sat down opposite him, and Jon managed to muster an answer: “Somewhere. Anywhere.  Wherever’s not _here_.”

The silence that stretched on was a comfortable one. 

“What‘re you thinking about?” _Why are you talking to me as if I will break_? Jon wanted to lash back, but bit his tongue. Edd’s intentions were decent. Edd hadn’t _betrayed_ him. Jon didn’t know if it made things better or worse. The wounds on his chest were still fresh, they still stung, and not even the frost could bite the pain away. 

It was a good question, honestly. Jon wasn’t really sure _what_ he was thinking about. He wasn’t really _thinking_ , if anything. All he could see were haunting, blue eyes– like burning ice – and darkness. Darkness that had engulfed him whole. 

There hadn’t been anything —

He had _died_. 

Sometimes, he wished it had all been a dream. That he would wake up gasping, with Ghost beside his bed and no scars littering his abdomen and chest. That there were no Others, and that Winter would swiftly pass. 

“You’re thinking about _them_ , aren’t ya?” Edd asked when Jon failed to answer his question. Jon couldn’t stop himself from shivering. 

“We can’t defeat them,” he said, hopelessly. His deep grey eyes met Edd’s with fear. “We _can’t_.” 

Edd didn’t say anything for awhile. “We can’t,” he finally agreed.

Well, at least he wasn’t bothering on lying. That had never really been Edd’s way. Jon was grateful, really, that the man was at the very least being honest about their situation, and wasn’t flattering Jon was false hope.

“Not alone.” He added then, startling Jon. 

“We can’t hope to gain an alliance with the Southern lords,” Jon said, knowing what Edd was suggesting. “the Night’s Watch–“

”– is sworn to protect the Realms of Men.” Edd interrupted, his eyes stern. “And what happens when the Night’s Watch _can’t_ do exactly that? Will the Realms of Men fall?” 

Jon didn’t answer. 

“No,” Edd continued, leaning back against his chair. “They’ll _fight_. Fight ti’ll the end. So why not fight together?”

It seemed like an easy and obvious answer, but nothing about life is ever easy. Jon’s life certainly wasn’t - _hadn’t_ been - and even though the idea itself looked rather simple, the things they’d have to do to put their plan into motion would be much more difficult. 

“The Seven Kingdoms are divided,” Jon said, instead, his gaze turning towards the fire again. “The Boltons have the North, the Lannisters the South. Even if we could get their alliance, we won’t win a war with a broken realm and strained houses.” And that was the simple truth. Harsh, but true. 

“It won’t hurt giving it a chance,” Edd commented. 

“Actually,” Jon said, sighing. “I think it would.”

This time, the silence that settled between them was thick with tension. The room was no longer warm, and the frost that hovered through the air reached his bones. Five years. It had taken five years for everything to become undone. Or perhaps it had taken a much longer time – but it had all simply unwinded within the span of five years. 

He supposed, in a way, that it didn’t matter if the noble families of the Seven Kingdoms would tear each other into ruins. They were hopeless. There was _no_ hope. 

Jon’s gaze returned to the fire. He had the urge to touch it, to allow the flames to engulf him whole. _They should have burned my body,_ he thought to himself, _burned me before the Red Woman could have even tried resurrecting me_. . .

“The North is loyal to the Starks,” Edd said, then, lowly.

A strange, unwelcoming feeling surged through Jon. 

“House Stark is dead—“

”You’re a Stark—“

”House Stark is _dead_!” Jon hollered, unable to control the crack in his voice, because _damnit_ it was _true_. There was no one left. Not honourable father Ned or brave Robb. Not little Rickon or wild Arya, wherever she was. Not crippled Bran. And whatever happened to Sansa? The lady-sister who had always been too gentle for the world? There was only Jon. Jon who carried nothing but a bastard name. 

And it hurt. It _hurt_. 

He remembered Maester Aemon’s words clearly. _Kill the boy and let the man be born_. But the boy had died – and Jon felt no more a man. 

“I should never have come.” Jon commented, more to himself than anyone really.

Edd  raised a brow. “What? If I would suddenly wake up back from the dead I’d be pretty damn grateful—“

”No, not that,” Jon said, still staring at the flames. “I should never have come _here_. To the Wall. Five years ago. I should have stayed with my brother Robb, or my brothers Bran and Rickon. I should have been by their sides, protecting them. Or died for them.”

Yes, he should have died for them. He should have —

He should’ve stayed dead.

“You’d be no use to us dead,” Edd said, “and things would have gotten pretty boring quickly without our familiar Jon Snow. Who would have taught us what you did? Who would have protected poor Samwell Tarly? Certainly not us.”

That comment, at the very last, managed to win a smile. Silence stretched on again, this time it stayed for a long time, and the two of them sat together contently. The fire had grown weak. It was no longer a strong, blazing glow, but there was life in it still. Neither of them dared move to kindle it. 

 

 “The End is coming.” Jon then said, allowing his words to root into both their minds. Edd didn’t answer for a while. 

“I know.” He whispered.  

 

 

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He was dreaming.

He did not dream often, but when he did it was always the same. Soft hands and an even softer laugh. Kind eyes that would peer at him with affection. In his dreams, his mother was high-born, noble, fair, with a gentle and a loving smile. She would sing to him, of wolves and old forgotten gods, and when her song would finish he would wake up, feeling lonelier than before. 

But this dream was different. 

He was walking through dimly lit stone halls, barefoot, with the frost of winter creeping close by. He recognised the corridors as he would his ten fingers, and for a moment was stunned. _Yes_. The halls were familiar.  He had often played in them, wandered around, with a familiar mop of Tully-red hair close and laughing by his side.

They had often played games, made-up ones, hide and seek or sword-play. Robb liked pretending he was Ser Ryam Redwyne or Ser Florian the Fool. Jon had always taken great interest in the old Targaryen princes, such as Daeron the Young Dragon or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. 

 _Robb_ had been called the Young Wolf. And Robb, just like Daeron, died. The memories still felt raw in his chest, and reality eventually settled bitterly in his stomach. He wasn’t _really_ standing in the halls of Winterfell. No. It was all but a dream.

 _Dreams can be sweet_ , he thought to himself, sadly. _Sweet as they can be bitter_. Reflections of old times, long gone and lost to the touch. Only existing within your memories. . .

There were torches propped on the walls, and as he walked past them his shadow would flicker by, and the licking flames would dance. He could hear the wind whistling outside, and slowly raised his arms, hugging himself. The halls were cold, not as he remembered them to be. 

Someone was singing. The voice was distant, and it got stronger the further he’d walk. However, it was not the voice he had claimed belonged to his mother. No. This voice was as lovely as it was sad. Full of anguish, regret and sorrows. It sung of forgotten grief. 

In a queer way, Jon could relate to whoever was singing, and felt the sudden desire to lean towards the mournful song. He longed for the voice, for even though it was wistful it brought him comfort.

Then, slowly, the halls began to shift and change. The stone walls crumbled, and like whispers of shadows the torches hissed as they were blown out, leaving nothing behind but silent gloom and the unwelcoming cold. At first, he began to panic, afraid that the darkness would swallow him whole as it had before.

He could not breathe, and felt his heart beat rapidly where it was caged in his chest. Suddenly, he felt very afraid, and  _very_ alone. 

The voice kept him going. No, the darkness had not conquered everything; not yet. In the distance he could see that there was a door, one that stood ajar. He saw that light was pouring from it, and could feel the warmth of the room reach out to him as well. It was the only light he could see. Jon kept on walking, towards the mellow voice and gentle lustre. Each step he would take felt heavy, as if the floor was made out of sand, and that he was slowly sinking. 

 

Perhaps, he was seeing into the future. Many people had prophetic dreams, unclear ones that rung of truth. Daenys Targaryen had dreamed of the Doom of Valyria, and thus House Targaryen had not perished with it. 

But it did not  _feel_ like a prophetic dream. It was different, as if he was gazing into a memory that was not his. It didn’t feel like he was looking into the future but something _beyond_ that. Something else he could not put into words. 

The voice had grown louder, it drowned out his woes and made him forget about the darkness and its shadows. It made him feel at peace. Before he even realised he was standing right before the door, his hands shaking as he leaned against the heat that swept from inside. 

But as he moved to push it open he hesitated. 

Suddenly, a wind blew past him, whipped through his hair and clothes. It slipped through the entrance and like a candle the light from within was blown out with a whisper, and the beautiful voice stopped singing. The door slammed shut. 

Jon felt himself being _watched_. 

Someone screamed, and startled he turned around, searching for the familiar voice that had called his name. However, he faced nothing but empty darkness. 

Then, he felt a cold hand grab his shoulder from behind. Like a claw it dug into his skin, rooting frost into his bones, so cold that it felt as though his skin and flesh were being turned ice. Not cold but hot; burning, with intense spasm that it made his vision blur. He screamed. 

Then—

 

 

Jon woke up, startled, with a gasp. Sweat covered his entire body, and Jon threw the sheets aside, feeling as if his entire body was afire. Ghost looked up at him, red eyes worried, and softly whined. Jon did not hear him though. He was shaking, trying to regain control of his breathing. His chest heaved at the pressure of it, as if his lungs were being _squeezed_. 

“Sansa,” he choked out, dark eyes wide and alert. He stared deeply at the single candle that sat beside his bed. The flame flickered. _Red_ , just as the fiery tresses of his sister's. “Sansa. . .” Was all he found himself able to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DON’T really like this chapter and considered on not publishing it, but oh well.  
> Jon’s dream is something I really considered on leaving out. It will clear out, eventually, and there is a meaning behind it. Whether it’s ‘prophetic’ is questionable🤔
> 
> Next chapter will be from Aegon’s perspective! I find it so much easier to write about him, idk why, so the third chapter should honestly be up in a day or two. 
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos! Ilysm ♡


	3. Salt and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: characters belong to G.R.R. Martin.  
> This is set in an Alternate Universe.

Loud footsteps echoed through the sunlit halls along with frantic, steep breaths. Servants and guards turned to cast the sprinting prince odd looks, some even smiled, but Aegon had little care for their reactions. He felt _alive_. 

Oddly enough, various emotions swirled within him, fanning the hot fire in his soul and turning it into a wild blaze. Deep in his heart he felt free, as if already he held the Seven Kingdoms in his grasp, and that he’d watch the world kneel before the soles of his feet. He felt _invincible_ , just as he had felt when upon Viserion’s back; with the wind whipping through his hair and his heart in his throat. 

He remembered very well the first time he had felt so alive. When Dany had given him a sweet, golden scaled thing; still fragile and wee, so small he had fit in the palms of Aegon’s hands. He had fallen in love with the dragon from first glance, and the bond they shared was inseparable. Daenerys was Viserion’s mother, but Aegon his promised dragon-rider. He would never betray Aegon, not willingly, and Aegon supposed that the dragon was perhaps the only thing in the world he could _completely_ trust. 

And now, years later, Viserion was big enough for Aegon to _ride;_ for Aegon to climb upon a scaled back and soar into the sky. It was nothing like he had ever felt before, to mount a _dragon._  The feeling was like being reborn again, especially after such victory. Glory rung through his veins.

However, when he entered his sister’s claimed room, he was disappointed to find that she did not share his same level of excitement. 

Rhaenys was sat by the window-seat in the far opposite of the room, gazing out at the horizon with a dazed expression. There was a new fleet there. Her purple eyes shimmered against the morning sun, and there was sadness in them. Her chin was propped neatly upon the palm of her hand, and her elbow was rested upon a bent knee. When she heard Aegon enter she simply cast him a single glance, before lazily turning her focus back at the sea. 

She had left the battle almost as soon as she had arrived; swiftly dismounted Rhaegal and ran back into the pyramid. She had not been there to hear Dany’s victory speech, nor to welcome the sudden new guests. 

She was brooding, he noted. She did that quite often. However, she spoke before he could: “They were screaming.”

Aegon, for a moment, was unsure of what to say. “They were burning,” he finally settled on, flinching at his own words and how blunt he had sounded.  Clearing his throat, he decided to try again. “They were in _pain_. I’d be screaming too—“

”It wasn’t their fault,” Rhaenys cut him off. Her eyebrows furrowed so that her face was caught in a frown. “They were simply following orders.”

Aegon hesitated for a moment, considering the situation and what might have been going through his sister’s head. He wanted to groan, scoff or even lash out at her for not celebrating their victory, but knew that those actions would only do harm. He had seen her hesitate, though only for a moment, before urging Rhaegal into the sky. She too had uttered the word _dracarys_ , before sending their enemies’ ships afire. 

“They had a choice,” he said, stepping forward. “They made their choice.”

She bit down at her bottom lip, a quirk she had picked up on ever since she was a child. It helped her with her anxiousness, or so she  would claim. Her voice was soft, barely audible, when she spoke again: “It doesn’t mean what we did was right.” Her round eyes finally met his. “We needed their fleet. We burned most of it to ash—“

”What would you have had us do?” Aegon asked, not harshly, for he was genuinely curious of her answer. He had always admired his sister’s gentleness, a trait that she had not picked up from her father's family but directly from her late mother. Elia’s death was still a fresh wound in Rhaenys’ mind, one that would never truly heal. 

Rhaenys hugged her knees, drawing them close to her chest. “I would have executed the masters. Forced their armies to surrender to us and sail to Westeros with their fleet. _All_ of it. Only a few ships remain left after our massacre.” She held Aegon’s gaze for a moment, making sure he took in her words, before turning away. “Who is to say we can _trust_ these new people? They might betray us as soon as they’ll get the chance.” Aegon knew that she spoke of the Greyjoys. She had little love for the many families of Westeros.

He sighed, not wanting to argue with his sister but not agreeing with her completely either. “What we did. . . was perhaps not the best solution.” He decided to begin with, trying to reason with her.  Slowly, he made his way towards where she was seated, and permitted himself to sit down opposite her. His gaze followed hers out the window, at the children playing by the docks. Everything was so still. It looked peaceful, with barely any evidence left of the battle that had ensued only a day before. It was as if nothing had happened in the first place. 

“We may not agree with them but they were the Queen’s orders, and we serve our Queen.” He ploddingly reached out, taking her hand into his and squeezing gently. “The things she does is out of love. For her people, our family. . . We have lost, and she is trying her utterly best to have it all returned. If not returned then won back.”

Rhaenys did not say anything and he decided to prod on: 

“You know our words. Fire and blood.”

She was silent for a moment. Then, she bent her head: “Fire and blood.” _Until the skies bleed red_. . . He was still holding her hand. She did not shrug him off. 

“I want to go home,” she whispered, her thumb soothingly brushing against his own. When she closed her eyes it was as if great pain was dawning upon her. “ _Home_. The home I remember. I want mother,” she hesitated, “ _father_. My soft old bed and Balerion.” Aegon found himself smiling sadly, recalling the little kitten Rhaenys had mentioned to him before. The sweet thing that she had named after the infamous Black Dread. The kitten’s fate was still unsolved, although Aegon doubted it was a happy one.

“We had _everything_ ,” she said, her eyes finally opening again. There were tears in them, although she’d be damned if she would allow them to fall. “And then it was taken from us before we even knew how much it meant.”

Fury swept over him like a wind. “We’ll get it back,” he said.

She smiled, although it was sad. “We can’t raise the dead.”

”No,” Aegon agreed. “But we can prevent their memories from being buried with them,” he stood up, still holding her hand, helping her onto her feet as well. “We _will_ get it all back.”

She smiled again. “Sweet words, brother,” she told him, finally letting her hand slip from his. Then, her smile fell, and there was nothing left but hollow disappointment. “But I’d rather not dwell in hope. I’m not sure whether I’d be able to take more damage.”

 _You would_ , he wanted to say, _you’ve survived so much_. . . He opened his mouth as if to speak but found no words. _We all have_. 

The ruins that had befallen upon their house was by the hands of lions, stags and even wolves. What had Daenerys once said? _Dragons eat sheep and horses alike_. . . 

But lions were not horses, and the wolves not sheep. There were no stags left to graze on the fields, but the Lannisters had always been a proud house. They even had one in their grasp. They would continue to roar; whatever little was left of them. And Aegon wasn’t all too sure whatever happened to the Starks. Their King had died, he had been told, but he doubted it was the end of their old house. 

The Starks had endured for thousands of years, even before dragons had stirred in old Valyria, or some liked to say. They were as ancient as they were strong, with the cold of their realm in their eyes. Just as the Targaryen’s had the breath of dragon-fire within their own.  

Aegon frowned. How many wars had the Starks fought? Against whom? Dany was right. It was all a little game, a wheel that was spinning round and round, crushing those beneath it —

“Prince and Princess.” Startled, the siblings turned their heads to see that Marselen stood by the entrance. He was bowing, with one knee touching the ground and his head bent low. He did not meet their eyes, even as he arose, his eyes glued on his feet. “The Queen wishes for your presence in the throne room.”

Rhaenys frowned. “Now?”

Marselen nodded, “Yes.” He said. “She would like to hear your councils when negotiating with the foreign lord and lady.” _The Greyjoys_. Aegon had little desire to meet up with them, but the Queen’s orders were the Queen’s orders. Daenerys required their presence.

Aegon offered his sister his hand, and she at the very least had the courtesies to take it. Marselen turned around swiftly on his heels, the sound of his boots clicking against the floor rung through the halls as he marched away. Aegon and Rhaenys soundlessly trailed after him.

 

 

 

Aegon wasn’t sure _what_ he had been expecting, but a meek, white-haired twitching boy and a young woman who looked more mannish than her brother was not it. Theon Greyjoy might have been handsome once, but all there was left of him was a hollow shell of what used to be a strong youth; broken beyond repair. Asha Greyjoy was the opposite of her brother. She looked strong, _proud_ , with wide shoulders and dark eyes that matched the black of her hair. When Aegon and Rhaenys entered the room both of the Greyjoys’ gazes, one sharp and the other empty, turned to look at them, fanning the thick tension that was already present in the air.

A wicked smirk adorned her thin face. 

Dany met Aegon’s eyes with masked relief. Although she had held herself quite well without them, there was no denying she appeared much calmer with the familiar faces of her niece and nephew. Swiftly, he took his usual stand by her right side and Rhaenys stood by her left.

“Good.” The Queen said, crossing her legs. “We may begin.”

However, the silence that reigned for a short moment indicated that none of them were willing speak first. Theon continued to twitch where he stood beneath the imp’s glare and Asha kept her head held high and proud, patiently waiting for something Aegon wasn’t quite sure was. 

Tyrion was the one that cleared the silence: “Last time we saw each other was at Winterfell, yes?” He asked, lowly, with an odd look on his face. “You were making jokes about my height, I seem to recall. Everyone who makes a joke about a dwarf’s height thinks they are the only person ever to make a joke about a dwarf’s height.”

Aegon found himself smiling, in spite of himself. But he couldn’t help but pity Theon, who looked abashed if anything. There was something odd about the young man that Aegon could not quite figure out. There was a strange feeling around him. As if he was a walking, talking skeleton. No longer Theon Greyjoy but a _corpse_. 

“It was a long time ago,” Asha said. “He’s not the same man as he used to be.”

”No he isn’t, indeed.” Tyrion agreed, and then said no more, although it was obvious he wanted to. 

“You murdered the Stark boys,” Rhaenys addressed, suddenly, a coldness in her usual sweet gaze. “How can we trust a man who murders children?” Personal grudge, Aegon noted. The three Targaryens, once four, had survived countless of assassination attacks and betrayals; including from those they had once deemed trustworthy. None of them had enjoyed a happy childhood, and it was not mystery of what their fates would have been. 

He still shivered at the thought of a bashed, open skull and uncountable stab-wounds. He couldn’t help but feel guilty at the deaths of their ‘replacements’. The Mountain, _Ser Gregor Clegane_ , had been too busy slaughtering the supposed Targaryen babes to have even noticed that it _wasn’t_ them. Only when their corpses had been placed before the cold, Iron Throne had the truth been unsolved. Rhaegar’s children still lived. The then Queen Rhaella had fled with them alongside her son; dismissing her late husband’s orders to only escape with Viserys. 

But the Lannisters’ cruel intentions did not go unheard of, and Rhaenys had no love for those who would want harm upon children. 

”I didn’t murder the Stark boys,” Theon said though, startling them, the confession a shocking surprise. “But I did things that were just as bad. . . or worse.” He quickly added, his uneasy gaze flickering to the ground and back at them. 

“And he paid for them.” Asha finished, sternly. 

“Did he?” Tyrion asked. “Doesn’t seem like it. He’s still alive.”

The Greyjoys were speechless for a moment, but Dany was quick to clear the tension: “You’ve brought us a hundred ships from the Iron Islands. _With_ men to sail them,” she paused, eyeing them coolly. “I expect that you want me to support your claim to the throne of the Iron Islands?”

Theon’s eye’s widened for a second, and he stammered before he could throw out his next words: “Not my claim,” he looked at his sister. “Hers.”

Dany raised a fine brow, both curious and amused she shifted in her seat. “What’s wrong with you?”

He hesitated, “I’m not fit to rule.”

”We can agree upon that, at the very least.” Tyrion said, satisfied.

Aegon looked at Asha. There were battle scars on both her neck and face. She was a hard woman, he could admire that. Still, he was curious: “Has the Iron Islands ever had a queen before?” 

She smiled, turning her gaze from him to Daenerys. “No more than Westeros.” Dany was startled for a moment, then she returned the smile. _Smart move_ , Aegon thought. It was obvious that there was a verbal battle going on, and the Greyjoys were faring pretty well. 

“Our uncle Euron returned home after a long absence.” Theon began to explain, his eyes still glued on the ground. Aegon had heard of that man before, _Euron,_ both cruel and heartless with no fear of death. “He murdered our father, and took the Salt-Throne from Asha. He would have murdered us had we stayed.”

”Lord Tyrion has told me that your father was a terrible king,” Dany commented.

“You and I have that in common.” Asha daringly said. Dany was taken aback, her eyes widened. _Another_ smart move. Now Daenerys _couldn’t_ use that against them. 

”Yes,” Dany managed to muster an agreement. “And they were both murdered by an usurper as well.” She turned to Tyrion. “Will their ships be enough?”

Tyrion thought for a moment, his brows furrowed. “With the former masters’ ships? Possibly. . .” he paused. “ _Barely_. We still haven’t gotten a word from Dorne?” Aegon shook his head. He was equally as impatient as all of them. 

“No word from Jon.” He answered, truthfully. If that man would even _dare_ betray them—

“And you are positive we will have Dorne’s alliance in this?”

”Yes.” It was Rhaenys who answered, her voice hard as stone. Tyrion did not prod her, knowing it would lead to no good. Instead, he turned back to Asha, a frown on his face: 

“There _are_ more than a hundred ships in the Iron Fleet.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. 

”There are,” Theon said. “And Euron’s building more. He’s going to offer them to you.”

“So why shouldn’t we wait for him?” Daenerys was quick to shoot. 

“The Iron Fleet isn’t all he’s bringing.” Theon paused, hesitating. “He also wants to give you—“

”His big cock,” Asha said, startling all of them, although there was a ghost of a smile behind her words. “I think he said.” Grey eyes met Aegon’s with unmasked coyness. “He spoke a lot about _you_. How he would cut of your man-hood and name you his wife along with your Queen and sister.” 

For some reason, Aegon was not taken aback or even a little bit disgusted. It did not go unnoticed. He had been threatened worse things before by prouder men, and of that lot none still lived. Therefore he found Euron’s words, if anything, _amusing_.  

“Euron’s offer is also an offer of marriage, you see, you won’t get one without the other.” Asha added, her voice smooth as silk. 

Dany met Aegon’s gaze with a smile on her lips before turning her gaze back to the Greyjoys. “And I imagine your offer is _free_ of any marriage demands?” Dany asked. The answer that came next was as unexpected as it was pleasing: 

“I never demand, but I’m up for anything really.”

A strange emotion lurched in Aegon’s stomach. It was not uncomfortable nor was it unwelcoming. 

“He murdered our father and would have murdered us,” Theon said, his fingers twitching. “He’ll murder you as soon as you have what he wants.”

”The Seven Kingdoms,” Tyrion finished. 

“All of them.” Theon agreed. 

“And you don’t want the Seven Kingdoms?” Rhaenys asked, curious. 

“Your ancestors defeated ours and took the Iron Islands. . . We ask you to give them back.”

Aegon couldn’t disagree that it _was_ a fair trade. They’d have another alliance, a strong one, and support for the Seven Kingdoms. It would only be fair to gift them their homeland in return for their generous and, hopefully, loyal aid. 

“And that’s all?” Aegon asked, narrowing his eyes at the two siblings. Asha was not intimidated. 

“I’d like you to help us murder an uncle-lord too, who thinks a woman is not fit to rule.” Asha said, but her words were more directed at the queen than him. There was something about the young woman, something intense, that made her attractive. Her features were too sharp, too narrow to be considered beautiful- and yet, there was _something_. Aegon could not deny that. 

Dany smiled, genuinely, and leaned back. “Reasonable.” 

There was silence, although it was more solemn than uncomfortable. The Greyjoys were offering them a fleet with a hundred ships, including men fit for battle. In return for their generosity they’d receive independence to a few dozen islands off the coast of Westeros. What was there to lose, really? 

Finally, the queen spoke: 

“Our fathers were evil men. They left the world worse than they found it. We’re not going to do that. . . We’re going to leave the world _better_ than we found it.”

There it was again. The spark. The _fire_ that flared Dany’s spirit. The dragon that would at times wake up in her soul. She then stood up, intimidatingly, and the atmosphere turned cold: 

“You will support my claim as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms. No more reeving, groving, raiding _or_ raping.”

Asha looked startled for a moment, as if Dany was jesting, but the Dragon-Queen was dead serious. Her amethyst eyes were ablaze. The Greyjoy shook her head. “That’s our way of life.”

When Daenerys spoke her voice was stern. “No more.”

Asha gave in. “No more.” She agreed, raising her arm. 

Dany hesitated, meeting Aegon’s eyes as if to receive assurance. He nodded, so did Rhaenys and Tyrion as well. The decision had been made. Asha smiled when their hands linked together, and they shook on it, an unbreakable bond. It would be a union sung of for centuries to come, Aegon was sure of it. The moment when salt and fire met. 

 

 

 

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

 

 

 

“Tell me what you think,” Dany said, offering Aegon a cup of wine before promptly pouring herself one. “And speak truthfully to your Queen. . .” She jested, although he knew it was only half a joke. There was no lying to her. She would read you as an open book. Aegon thought for a moment before settling on an answer: 

“I think it’s the right thing to do,” he said, taking a deep drink, feeling the sweetness and sting of the wine on his tongue. “Three dragons or not, their alliance is useful.” It was true. A hundred ships was a great number, even though more could be offered to them. 

Daenerys returned back to the bed where Aegon lay and sat down next to him. She was nude, and her figure appeared waxen in the candlelight. “I hope that we’re not making a mistake.” She said, softly, her eyes fixated on her wine. “You know that’s the one thing I fear, every single day? Making the wrong decision, risking the lives of those I love in the progress.”

Aegon offered her a smile that he hoped was assuring, “There’s no need to fear,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “We will win, I’m sure if it. The many lords of Westeros have no idea what’s coming for them. . .” He paused, grinning. “How they will shit their pants when they see our Dragon-Queen riding The Winged Shadow through the sky. . .”

She giggled. She never laughed that way in public. Daenerys was a free spirit, wild and untamed. He would never be able keep her in his grasp. The giggle was the one thing he could call his. He watched her, at the silvery-golden tresses that had been left unbound. Like starlit waves they fell down her shoulders and onto the mattress beneath her, shimmering soft. But the one thing he loved more than most was her smile, wide and bright. It cleared the darkness in the room and,  as poetic as it might sound, made his heart bloom.

Dany took a long sip from her own drink before placing it down upon the stand beside the bed. She adjusted her position, so that she lay on her side facing him. “What did you think?” 

He raised a brow. “What?”

She grinned, childishly, another thing she only allowed herself to do alone with him. “What did you think, being on Viserion’s back?” _Ah, that_. . .

He leaned back onto his elbows. “It was. . .” he paused, “perhaps the best feeling I’ve ever felt. You know. . . even though you are a hundred feet up in the sky, and one slip can have you plummet to your doom, you can’t help but feel—“

”Safe?” She offered. He nodded. 

“Yes. _Safe_. . .”

Dany paused, in deep thought. She frowned, and it did not look right on her face. “Rhaenys doesn’t seem to agree with us.”

He was startled, for a moment, not quite sure what to say. He knew what she was talking about. Rhaenys had fled right after the battle without a word. She had dismounted her dragon in a blur of motion, and vanished as a shadow within a blink of an eye.

Eventually, Aegon managed to come to his sister’s defence. “No, that’s not it,” he explained. “I can assure you she felt just as alive as we did, and her bond with Rhaegal is strong. It’s just. . . she has always been soft and merciful. She loathes violence, you know this.”

Daenerys did not say anything. 

“She, unlike the both of us, recalls her time in King’s Landing. Like Viserys, she knows what life could have been for us. _Unlike_ Viserys she did not turn mad with her loss, but that doesn’t mean she’s not immune to turning cold – or paranoid.” He bit down on his bottom lip before continuing. It was a sensitive topic, speaking of Viserys and the madness that had taken a hold of him. Sometimes, Aegon feared it would get to them as well.

“What I mean to say is. . . She’ll get through, eventually, and she is loyal to you. Trust me.”

There was a heavy silence for a moment. 

“I trust you.”

For a short while the two of them simply sat together in comfortable silence. He watched her through hooded eyes, drunk with sleep, but could not find himself capable of looking away. She had come a long way, sweet Dany. He could scarcely remember the weak girl she had been. All he could think of was the woman she was now. _The Mother of Dragons_ , they called her. _The Breaker of Chains_. 

“You are extraordinary.” He said, dazed, his fingertips grazing over her stomach. “You don’t even see it. . .” 

She lazily smiled and laid her hand atop of his, leaning forward. “Then make me see, my prince. . .” 

He smiled when her lips met his, and gingerly held her kiss. When they separated he swiftly hooked an arm around her, peppering her face with haste kisses. Dany smelled of lavender and rich perfumes, and her skin was soft under his touch.  

She softly shrieked when he rolled over, pulling her with him, so that he lay atop of her; and laughed idly when his lips found her neck. When his eyes met hers, mauve against shimmering amethysts, they stared unblinking at each other. Eventually, he bent down to place a final kiss upon her brow, allowing his lips to linger upon her skin for a second. 

A hand came to cradle his face, nimble fingers grazing his cheek. However, when she spoke, her voice did not match the softness of her actions or gaze: “Don’t ever betray me.”

It was a warning, he knew it. Aegon and Rhaenys were all that was left of her House. The dragons were her children, yes, but Aegon was of her blood. His betrayal would be a deep wound to both her spirit and mind, one that could permanently scathe her. Which is why it was a good thing he never in his life would. 

So he simply laughed, burying his face in her fine tresses. “ _Never_. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil fluff ;’)  
> They’re going home!! This chapter isn’t as long as I intended it to be, but next chapter will be up in a few days. Thank you all for the kudos! it means a lot.  
> I would love to hear what you guys think of everything so far. As you may have noticed, I’m mostly sticking to show-canon right now, but it will all take a drastic turn once they reach Westeros, just wait and see...
> 
> Next chapter will be from Jon’s perspective. Ily all and thank you again ♡


	4. Lady Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon bids farewell to the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to G.R.R. Martin.  
> This story is set in an Alternate Universe.

The Wall had once been nothing but distant dream. The Night’s Watch, back then, had been like knighthood to a young boy hungry for glory; a bastard with no future inheritance or titles. He had been nothing but a boy of fourteen, willing to cast aside everything little he had before he ever realised how much it meant. To him, it had been a chance, an _opportunity_ to win himself honour and respect. A path to greatness so rare for a bastard to tread. Excitement had coiled through his stomach like a serpent at the thought of taking the black, to kneel before a sacred weirwood tree and utter the ancient words. 

 _Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death_. . .

As he stood now facing the towering ice, with the cold wind whipping through his hair, the feeling of excitement rushed to him again, along with unwanted sorrow and dread. When he had first arrived to Castle Black, he never thought he'd ever leave. His whole life had been mapped out before him, and now it was as if the map had been torn apart, and he was left with stitching all the pieces back together.

 _My watch has ended_ , Jon thought, bitterly, to himself. The scars on his chest felt heavy. They were burdens that he would have to carry wherever he would go, until he would die a second time. He had killed them, the traitors, but felt nothing. It hadn’t felt like revenge. He had felt no satisfaction by watching them die. He only felt hollow. 

"You know, you don't have to go." Jon turned his head and met the hopeful eyes of Edd. Eddison had always been one of Jon's most closest Night's Watch brothers. He had not betrayed Jon, but even he could not convince him to stay.

 Jon smiled, though it was sad. “I can’t stay. . .” He hesitated. “I always thought my place was here. For a time it was. . . But I was wrong. ” The Wall and taking the black had never been meant for him. His place had been at Winterfell, by his brothers and sisters. He should have been there, gone with them South, _protected_ them. Would things have gone differently? Would Robb have listened to his advice on strategy, or would he have managed to escape with his father and sisters in time? Jon _knew_ he would have protected Bran and Rickon, even died defending them if needed be. His father had told him he was a Stark, that he may not carry the name but he had the blood; and that his place was with the pack.  

Jon wished he had realised that sooner. 

Edd returned the wistful smile. He approached Jon where he was sat upon a horse. The mare was swift and light on her feet. She would carry him far.

“There’s a high chance you might die,” Edd said, softly. “Many Southern lords might think of you as a deserter of the Night’s Watch.” Jon had thought about that, many times, and knew the risks were high. But he had made his choice. 

“Then at the very least I won’t be brought back this time.” The sentence was meant to sound lighthearted, but it came out as depressing. He shifted on his horse. “Don’t worry. I’ll try and keep my head.”

Edd let the tension on his shoulders fall. “Let us hope so.” When he raised his eyes to meet Jon’s there was mirth in them. “I hope we will see each other again Jon, and that this it not our last goodbye.” Offering Jon his hand, the former Lord Commander took it, and held onto it tightly. 

“Farewell to you, Lord Commander.” Jon said. 

“And you, Snow.”

They shook their hands, still holding on tightly, as if neither wished to be the first to let go. Perhaps they would never see each other again. Jon had no intentions of returning back, and Edd’s duty was still bound to the Wall.

At last, Edd allowed his hand to fall. Taking a step back, he never took his eyes off of Jon, even when the former Lord Commander turned South. Jon gripped the reigns of his horse and urged for her to move. She neighed softly and prettily obeyed, her feet light against the snow, and her pace soothing. He rode on, the wind cold against his skin, with his back turned to the Wall. The sun was already starting to set in the West, painting the sky a blood-orange red. 

It was as if the heavens were bleeding. 

Ghost ran beside him, never straying too far, and made no sound. _Dire wolves do not belong in the South_ , Jon thought  to himself, bitterly. _But Ghost will not leave my side. He is the only one who will protect me; and the only one I can trust_. . . The ones he had trusted before had either betrayed him or lay buried in the ground.

He had hung them himself. Looked each one of them in the eyes and taken their lives. . .

Jon did not look back. He feared that if he would he’d never be able to leave; for a part of him did not want to. It had been a home to him, more than Winterfell; even though he hesitated to admit so. But it had lost its meaning to him. He could not look at the same walls, the same buildings and even some of his brothers the same way he had before. Everything had changed, and it would never be as it was. 

 _Uncle Benjen is still lost behind the Wall_ , he thought to himself. It made him sad. A dark part of his mind whispered: _No. Benjen is dead. Just like father and Robb_. . .

House Stark had suffered unbearable amount of pain. Wolves were meant to stay together in a pack, but for some reason they had all split. It had led most of them to their demise. 

Some time during the night, when the waxen moon had at last risen to the sky, he set up camp. It was difficult setting it up, he was not used to doing it all by himself, but eventually he managed to ignite a small glow. The fire did little to banish away the cold, but Jon did not mind it this time. He had not travelled far, but could still feel the shift in the atmosphere. It was warmer. 

A special imp had been travelling with him when he had first been heading to the Wall. Jon’s mouth twitched at the bittersweet memory. Tyrion Lannister had been a strange, little man with a snark tongue. The dwarf had only read, drank and belittled others. Jon did not recall a time when the dwarf had ever shut up, and he had also made Jon cry at some point. But Tyrion Lannister had taught him a valuable lesson; one that the Stark bastard would never forget. 

He wondered where Tyrion was now; whether the imp was already dead or close to dying. Oddly, a small part of him hoped not. 

Jon turned his gaze towards Ghost, and the wolf stared back at him. Ghost was the last of his litter. Jon smiled to himself, ruefully. _Does he know that? Does he, too, feel sad_? The red eyes only looked at him, unblinking, until Jon turned away. A part of him was convinced that Ghost did. He scratched the wolf’s head, allowing his fingers linger on the white fur. 

“It’s just you and me, boy,” he said. “Just you and me. . .”

It wasn’t a terrible thought. To slip away out of notice and live the rest of his days in the wild, free of any burdens; with only Ghost by his side. Of course, he knew he could never. A threat was coming, one they could not stop, and  knowing that only made things worse. It didn’t matter how hard they would fight — or how willing they would be to survive. They would not last a day against the Others and their army of the dead in battle. Not a night. Unless there was some magical _miracle_ out there sent by the gods that would save them all; but Jon did not live in a fairytale. There’d be no happy ending to this. 

Even if they _would_ win, and the chances were unlikely, the losses would be fatal.

He was stuck. There was nowhere to go. The whole world would eventually be consumed by frozen wasteland; and the people that would inhabit it then be nothing but dead. Walking corpses left to wander aimlessly until the end of time. . .

So that left him back where he was. _Where to go_? _What to do_? Where should he spend the rest of his days? He could not return to Winterfell, they would have his head on a spike; and King’s Landing was a ridiculous thought, for he was a traitor’s son in their eyes.

But what if he wouldn’t go as Jon Snow? What if he was just some common Northerner, a low-born, with no lands, no riches and no family? 

Well, that wasn’t much of lie. He was already all of those things. But unfortunately, to his bad luck, his Stark features would not slip away unnoticed. People liked to say that Cersei Lannister would never forget the faces of her enemies, and Jon was sure she would remember the face of honourable Eddard Stark.

Jon felt hopeless. Wherever he would go, he would either be looked upon as of traitor’s blood or a deserter. Either way, he’d be executed all the same. 

Had his life always been so complicated?

He thought about that. Yes. Most part of it had been rather tiring. 

Leaning back against a tree he was sat by, Jon closed his eyes. Ghost’s head was rested upon his lap and the wolf lay completely still. Jon ran his fingers through the soft fur, feeling the heat pooling from the beast’s body. It brought him comfort, even though it was little to nothing, knowing that Ghost was still with him. 

Edd’s words echoed through his mind. _The North is loyal to the Starks_. . . 

Jon was Eddard Stark’s son, no one had ever denied that, but the problem was that he wasn’t true born. He carried the blood but not the name, and to most Northerners that was not enough. He had never dared dream of becoming a lord before, knowing it was a fate far too distant for him to reach. So why allow himself the thought of it now? 

He could perhaps try and negotiate with some Northern houses that had always been on good terms with House Stark, such as the Mormonts or Manderlys. But even if he would win their loyalty ( and the chances were not high ), it would still not be enough to defeat the Boltons, who served as wardens of the North now. 

Would blood truly be enough? 

He wanted to go home. Yes, _home_. That’s where his heart longed to go. A part of him wished that his family was still there, that perhaps everything had been one messed up dream and his father and sisters had never gone South. That Jon Arryn still served as Hand of the King and Robb yet lived. That Winterfell would welcome him back with open arms, and he would live the rest of his days serving his lord.

 _Don’t be foolish, Jon_. . . He told himself. _Don’t make things more painful than they already are_. 

How can one, a bastard, rise so high and then stoop so low? He had become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he had fought the Others and _won_ ; for a short time. Then he had died, and returned back to life feeling like absolute—

Ghost whined, startling Jon from his drifting mind. Looking up and peering into the distance, Jon saw nothing but empty darkness; and could hear nothing but the silent wind. However, Ghost arose onto his feet and looked into the gloom with his bright, crimson eyes. A rare, low growl hummed in his wolf’s throat, indicating that threat was close by. 

Something was out there.

Slowly, Jon reached out for his sword, wrapping his hand tightly around the hilt of it. He shifted in his seat so that he was crouching. Narrowing his eyes, Jon tried to to peer into the darkness, but found it difficult to almost impossible. Everything was still for a moment, even the wind had stopped blowing, and no creatures of the forest stirred close by. 

Jon gripped his blade and went into position just behind Ghost, who had stopped growling but still stared into the seemingly nothingness. Time stretched on dreadfully slow, and Jon’s hands were starting to sweat as anxiousness began to settle. 

Then, Ghost simply sat back down, his tense body slacking. Jon frowned. _What_ —

“ _ARGH_!” A loud voice boomed through the night. Jon barely managed to register what was happening before a towering figure emerged from the gloom, tackling Jon to the ground with bone-crushing strength, so hard that all wind left his lungs. 

However, Jon could recognise that red beard even in the dark: 

“ _Tormund_?” He asked, baffled, confused as to _why_ the wildling was with him; and in the ‘South’ that is. Bright blue eyes stared back at him wide and alert, but there was a ghost of laughter in them. Soon enough another emerged from the shadows as well, breathless and panting. Jon turned to him, even more startled: “ _Ser Davos_?”

“You think you can escape from us that easily, little crow?” Tormund asked, clapping Jon harshly on the back. Soon enough, more wildlings emerged from the dark; and a whole lot of them made themselves comfortable by the low fire, not even bothering to greet Jon or ask if they may join. He hadn’t expected them to, anyways. 

Jon wanted to weep tears of joy, to laugh and hug the giant of a man. But instead, he found himself only able to say one word: “Why?”

Tormund shrugged. “Bah. The Wall or down here, doesn’t matter. Both places aren’t the true North– and we chose to follow _you_.” He stood up, hoisting Jon onto his feet as he went before clapping him on the back. “Edd told us you were already gone when we asked about you. So we went after you, you puny man—“

Jon shoved him, although he was grateful for the company. He couldn’t even begin to express how glad he was at the sight of them all. “Well, I’m glad to have you here. . .” He paused. “You _do_ know I’m gonna stay down here, right? That I might never go back to the Wall?”

Tormund paused, as if he hadn’t considered that, and there was a strange look in his eyes. Then, he shrugged again, slumping down by the fire close to his wildling friends. He was staring into the flames. “What does it matter? The Others are coming. What difference does it make if we die up there or down here? Though I must say, always thought I’d go down like a bear in the North, not like a weasel in such a shit-hole of a place. . .”

Jon managed to crack a smile, sitting down next to Tormund. “We’re still in the North, you know.”

Tormund looked at him. “You’re as dumb as you look if you think _this,_ ” he waved his hand lazily, as if he was addressing something meaningless. “Is the real North. . .” He paused. “Where you headed to?”

Jon hesitated. “I don’t know. . .” he answered truthfully. 

“You don’t know?” The older man repeated, slowly, as if he wanted to be sure he heard the sentence correctly. “You always spoke so highly of that place you liked to call home. What did you call it?”

The northerner bowed his head. “Winterfell. It’s a castle.”

”Ah. _Castle_ ,” Tormund said it as if he was testing the word on his tongue. “It’s like a tower, yes? Only bigger?”

Jon nodded. “Yes. Bigger.” he paused, remembering both the fond and foul memories. Bran had slipped and fallen from climbing the castle walls. Oh, sweet little Bran. Who had liked riding and running. The fall had crippled him for life. “Much bigger. . .”

Silence settled between them. 

“So,” Tormund said, shifting. “Why not go there?”

Jon was startled. “It doesn’t belong to House Stark anymore. . .” He explained, and the next words that came out of his mouth hurt to say: “The Boltons have it.”

”So take it back,” Tormund said, as if it was the most obvious solution to their problem. “They can’t have it if they can’t keep it.”

For some reason, Tormund’s words made Jon angry. He lashed out: “What am I suppose to do? Take it back on my own? Ride over there and ask nicely? It doesn’t work like that down here—“

Tormund laughed, loudly. “Not up in the North either, little crow.” The wildling said, not bothered by Jon’s sudden fury. When he looked Jon in the eyes, there was strength in them, and warmth. It made Jon feel better and not so hopeless. “You have us. How difficult can it to be take away a big tower from some prissy-Southern cunts?”

It took Jon a moment to realise what Tormund was suggesting. Everything had gone silent, and the rest of the wildlings were looking at him. Ser Davos asserted him with an even gaze, as if he was judging Jon’s reactions. His eyes widened, then, the hope faltered; and Jon felt nothing but weary. 

He was sick of fighting. 

“You’d be surprised.” Jon answered, bowing his head. Looking around, all eyes were on him. They weren’t that many, probably two hundred. Definitely not enough to defeat the Boltons and the other Northern lords that had sworn fealty to the new Northern usurpers. “We can’t defeat them with the numbers we have.”

Tormund leaned back. “You’ve never been one to easily give up, little crow.” He said. “And _fuck it_. We’ll kick all of their asses with two hundred men or less.” Jon didn’t even bother trying to argue with him. “We have more men that can fight, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jon was startled. “ _What_?”

Tormund shrugged, as if it was some useless information. “We split into groups when we decided to journey down here.”

A strange, new feeling surged through Jon. “How many do you reckon you have?”

Tormund thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Two thousand who are able to fight, maybe? The rest are children and old people. No more.”

Jon thought for a moment. _Two thousand_. If the could get an alliance with some of the other Northern houses— 

 _No. Don’t give yourself false hope, Jon_. . . he thought to himself, feeling irritated. The chances of returning back home were low. Fighting the Boltons without at least five thousand men would be suicide. 

And yet, it was so very tempting. . .

He stared into the fire, his fingers twitching in sync with the crackling wood as it broke and splintered. Reclaiming Winterfell would be an honourable deed. It would bring justice to House Stark, and in progress unite the North with stronger bonds. Most Northern lords were fonder of the Starks rather than Boltons—

 _You’re a Snow, Jon_. . . he reminded himself, angrily, although he had always been stubborn to admit so.

He should have given himself some time to think, perhaps a day or two. To come to a final decision that he would act upon, no matter the difficulties he’d face in the progress. However, he found himself thinking foolishly, and rashly. There was a strange feeling within him. 

As if his soul was afire. 

He wanted go go home. The Starks had been wardens of the North for toughly three centuries, and served as Kings of the North long before that. What _right_ did House Bolton have, sitting at Winterfell? What were flayed men compared to wolves? 

Jon clenched his fists. He weariness was small and fickle compared to his anger, and although he did not want to fight – a part of him felt that it was his duty to. _I’m a Stark_. . . he thought to himself. _I may not have the name but I have the blood; and I will bring the cold of the realm with me_. . .

He looked away from the fire and met Tormund’s blue eyes with unmasked wrath. When he spoke, his voice was like biting ice: 

“Gather the rest of your men.” Jon said, surprised by his own words. _What are you thinking_? He thought to himself. _You’ll get us all killed_.  “We will send a message to lord Bolton and the North. Tell them that Winter is coming.

 

 

 

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Jon knew he was dreaming from the moment he opened his eyes. Well, _dreaming_ wouldn’t be the correct term, for he _was_ awake. Looking around, he could see the sleeping piles of bodies, some huddled together for warmth, others alone by the low burning fire. He saw himself, leaned comfortably against a tree, with eyes closed and lips slightly parted. The soft rising of his chest indicated he was breathing, and was soundlessly asleep.

Standing up on four legs, Jon wandered soundlessly around the campsite, sniffing the ground and listening to close sounds in the distance. There was no threat close by, and a few men were standing guard. Some would look at him, cast him sideways glances, but none dared approach him. 

Looking into the distance, at the woodlands covered in shadows, he felt the sudden desire to _run_. To bolt through the forest as the wind, knowing that no creature would dare stop him in his path. The cold would not bother him and neither would any men. 

So that’s what he did. 

Running felt different. It was more wilder, _free_. He did not tire easily, and never needed to worry about getting lost. He always knew what way would lead back, and so he simply allowed himself to unravel; and fly with the wind. Jon suppressed the urge to howl, knowing it would only attract unwanted attention; or perhaps bring fear. 

Although they were deep in the woods, snow still covered the ground as a white blanket. It felt cold beneath his feet – no, not feet. _Paws_. 

The woods grew thicker the further he would go. The routes felt familiar, even though he had never been there before. The scent of the earth and the frost in the air felt homely. Ghost had loved the land of ever-winter. Beyond the wall, Ghost had roamed free. Jon felt slightly guilty of having taken that away from him.

How long had he been running? An hour? Two hours? He did not know. Time passed by swiftly when in wolf-form. He wasn’t even sure how far he had travelled. The distance between him and the campsite must be a few miles by now, if not more. 

It was still dark, although the night was no longer young. In the distance, he could see some of the morning rays; which meant that dawn was close by. He stopped running, panting softly as he watched sweet snowflakes hover through the air and gently onto the ground. Frost littered the earth and the trees, and icicles hung from crooked branches. Still, there was beauty to it, even in the dark, and Jon found himself at peace. 

He could run away, from his duties and whatever fate the gods had woven for him. He could abandon his past and his body and live in Ghost until the end of his days, free from burdens. 

He knew he couldn’t. 

He lied down and closed his eyes, wanting to drift off into soundless sleep. When he would wake up, he would be in his original body, as _Jon_ , and Ghost would return to him as if he had never left. That’s how it would always go. 

Then, he heard a sound. 

Opening his eyes, Jon raised his head to look around. Confusion fogged his mind as he tried to find what he was looking for. However, there was nothing but stillness around him, and he was alone.

Yet, there had been a sound. A wail, crying for help. It had been small, subtle, but it had been there nonetheless. Jon sat still and listened intently. Had it truly been nothing? Was Jon simply paranoid? 

Then, he heard it again, and Jon was convinced his mind was not deceiving him. Rising up onto his feet, he listened closely, ignoring both the wind and the stirring trees. When he heard third time, he ran towards it hastily, deeper into the woods than before. 

He ran for a long time, until the cries became louder, and he could hear that they were accompanied but other things as well. In the distance he could hear the voices of men, hollering and trading orders, along with the snarls and barks of violent hounds. 

How far South was he? Had he truly ran that far?

Uncertainty rested uncomfortably in his stomach. The wisest decision would be to go back, and yet a part of him told him to move forward. Ghost’s own faint consciousness urged for him to linger on, and Jon trusted Ghost. When he was close enough to hear them properly he began to walk silently, as a ghost, and made sure that his form was hidden beneath the shadows of the branches and trees. 

Before him, down in a clearing, he saw a group of men. Some were a top of horses while others stood on their own two feet, clutching the leashes of dogs. They were all circling something, or rather _someone_ , with glee and spite in their eyes. 

It was a woman, he noted. She was hooded, and shook where she stood under their watchful gazes. The hounds were growling, and the men had to restrain them with all their strength so that they would not attack her. None of them noticed Jon looming in the dark, dangerously close by. 

“You will return with us, lady Bolton.” One of the men said, not kindly. “Willingly or not, you will return with us to Winterfell.”

Jon listened intently. So this must be Roose’s wife, Walda. They often called her Fat Walda, although she appeared rather thin, tall and lean. 

What was she doing in the woods, and why were the men speaking to her so harshly? It was dark and cold, and all she had on was a single cloak. Southerners did not do well in the North, especially when Winter was close. Jon did not doubt that she would die if she would stay out any longer, and yet it seemed she was refusing to go with them. 

The woman took a step back, and gasped when one of the hounds lashed at her. Its sharp teeth grazed her gown before the hound was roughly pulled away, still snarling and barking as if it was feral. Because of her abrupt movements, the hood around her head slipped off, revealing not average brown hair but bright tresses; red as fire. 

Jon refused to believe his eyes. 

 _Sansa_. 

She was taller than he remembered her being, and her figure was more womanly, but the auburn hair and blue eyes were unmistakable. Her face was still lovely, although it was caught in frantic distress.

He remembered a little girl, whiny and cocky, yet proud and sweet. A girl, far too soft for the world they lived in. She was a woman now, but surly the same person. It was his sister, Sansa Stark. 

One of the men suddenly approached where she stood and grabbed her roughly, his grip on her arm tight and painful. She cried and thrashed. 

His _sister_. 

They were hurting her.

Jon was down there before he even realised he had moved. They did not notice him yet, his steps had been well practiced and silent, and so with all the strength he could muster he let out a high howl, one that rung through the forest like a scream. All the men, including Sansa, turned to him, startled; and the hounds directed their barks at him rather than her. 

He towered over them. Dire-wolves were large beasts, more than twice the size of any regular wolves. To them, he must have looked like a monster that had crawled from the depth of the earth. 

“Seven hells!” One of them hollered, letting go of the leash of his hound, so that the dog bolted towards Jon with impressive speed. Unfazed, Jon leapt aside, and with no hesitation sunk his teeth in the hound’s throat. The dog whined, though only for a second, before he fell down limp. The taste of blood sat unpleasantly on his tongue.

Chaos ensued from then on. The men were tossing at each other commands and the horses neighed, stomping their hooves onto the ground and sending their riders flying into the air. The others hounds had been let loose, they were all attacking Jon from all directions. 

But Jon had fought many battles before. This one was not all too impressive. They were a little match to Ghost, and their fear did little to help them in battle. The blades of their sword never touched him, and the dogs were hesitant to attack. 

An arrow came soaring through the sky, digging into one of Jon’s hind legs along with one of the hounds’ jaws. Jon snapped at him, wrapping his jaw around the beast’s throat and tossing him aside, so that the dog rolled over in the distance, dead as well. The other three hounds whined fearfully at the sight of the brutal slaughter. They abandoned their masters without a second glance, running away so that their barks echoed through the forest until Jon could hear them no more. 

Another arrow came flying, and it hit him on the side. Spasm flared through his body, causing him to whimper, and he barely managed to register before a third arrow hit him close by the neck.

Looking around, he spotted the archer, and within seconds hovered over the screaming man, tearing the frightened head off of the body. Blood splattered all around them, tainting both the white of the snow and his fur. 

Within minutes, only one man was left standing. He was shaking, clutching onto his sword with a limp arm, sounded and in pain. He was looking at Jon with frightened eyes, ones that were wide and alert. 

Jon regarded him, silently, and watched as he scrambled away. With broken and painful cries he staggered through the forest like a madman. Jon did not bother chasing after the man, and instead turned his gaze towards Sansa, who had stood still the entire time. 

She did not _look_ scared, no. Her eyes were wide and she was stiff, but there was no fear in her stance. She was rather looking at Jon with amazement, as if she did not want to believe her eyes, or as if a dead family member had been revived. Slowly, she raised a shaking hand, and Jon wasn’t sure whether it was because of fear or the cold. 

Jon found himself approaching her cautiously, until they stood nothing but an arm’s reach away. 

“I know you.” She whispered, her voice hovering through the air like a winter lullaby. If he could talk he would have called her name. Repeated it, over and over again. It _was_ Sansa. Looking at her face, he recognised her fair Southern features. Beautiful and warm, but there was frost in her eyes. 

He remembered her when they had both been nothing but children. They had never been close, not as he had been with Arya, but they had been siblings nonetheless. They had always spoken to each other softly, and one time Jon had scared her and Bran down in the crypts. She had screamed as if her life had been at stake, but laughed about it afterwards.

The last time he had seen her she had been heading South and he North. They had hugged, bid their goodbyes, and turned away. Jon, for a long time, had thought that had been their final goodbye. 

He was glad he had been wrong. 

“You look so much like Lady. . .” she choked, and laughed through the tears in her eyes. “She had a bit of grey in her fur, though, and her eyes weren’t red. . .”

She looked at him sadly, as if bittersweet memories plagued her thoughts. Lady had died, he knew that. Jon did not know how or why, but that didn’t really matter, he supposed. She was dead, and nothing would change that. He remembered one night, after a long and hard day of training, Ghost had suddenly looked up into the sky and howled. He had howled for quite some time, and Jon had felt his pain as if it were his own. The other trainees had complained about the lack of sleep, and begged Jon to silence his pet. But Jon had not done that. He had allowed Ghost to grieve. 

Her fingers were only inches away from touching him. They shook, and the tips of them were tinted blue. Tears ran down her face, and they froze on her cheeks. She smiled to herself. “I must be going mad. . .” she said. “You can’t be real. . .”

Then, her hand touched his face—

And Jon woke up with a startled gasp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, I finished writing this chapter.  
> For some reason I got a huge writer’s block and couldn’t bring myself to just sit down and type. I got that all cleared up now, thank god.  
> Yes: Jon’s timeline is a little off in this story. It’s all done on purpose, no worries.  
> Also: Tormund’s appearance, like Missandei, is based on the show and not the books. Idk why, but I can’t imagine him as anybody else but Kristofer Hivju.  
> This chapter is rather hasty, I know, but I wanted to update. There Is a chance I will edit it, but not drastically. 
> 
> Next chapter will be Aegon’s. Hopefully I’ll be able to get it up within a few days. 
> 
> Hope you guys aren’t getting bored in this story yet, all the fun will take place soon<3\. I really appreciate the kudos and comments, ily all.


	5. An Imp’s Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Targaryens argue over the fates of the Second Sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: characters belong to G.R.R. Martin  
> This work is set in an alternate universe.

The wine sat bitterly on his tongue. It was an unpleasant taste, neither sweet or fresh, and it only made his mind foggy and blurred. He seldom drank during the days, solely because he preferred to be sober during sunlit hours, and rarely got drunk. Whenever he _would_ drink it would be during the depths of night, perhaps beneath silken sheets, in the company of his queen and his queen only. 

However, oddly enough, he found himself chugging down his fourth cup and pouring himself another during broad daylight. Turmoil swirled in his stomach along with bottled down anxiousness, threatening to explode any second. There was an odd tension in the air, one that none of them could get rid of, so thick that Aegon was sure he would be able to cut through it with Valyrian steel. 

Daenerys was sitting next to him, silently sipping on her own cup with her eyes glued on the wall, her legs crossed to prevent them from shaking. Rhaenys was pacing around the room with crossed arms and a frown, unable to remain still, muttering inaudible words to herself. 

They were all nervous. 

Of course they were; and they had every right to be. They had been preparing for this moment their whole lives. All the ups and downs that they had ever experienced led to _this_. Returning to Westeros. _Home_. The word itself felt unfamiliar to Aegon. He had never really had a home he could remember. Essos had been all he had ever known, and he wasn’t sure whether he was truly prepared to leave it for a continent that was as unfamiliar to him as his right hand. 

He was afraid. Afraid that once he’d lay eyes upon his homeland, at the rocky shores and foreign valleys, he wouldn’t feel relief or joy. He was afraid that it would all be a disappointment; and that he would not feel at home. That he never would.

“I’ve been thinking. . .” Dany said, slowly, grabbing both their attentions. The prince looked up from his cup, feeling dazed, and the princess’ eyes widened. There was an odd look on her face. Dany placed her cup down, and looked at each of the siblings evenly. She hesitated to speak, as if it was difficult to force the words out: 

“Daario will not be going with us.”

Aegon would be lying were he to say he wasn’t startled.

“What?” He asked, bewildered. He stood up, far too hastily because the room seemed to spin, and barely managed to regain his balance by placing his hand on a nearby chair. His eyes met Daenerys’ with confusion, anger and shock; all combined into one. It was a whirlwind of emotions. “ _What_?” He repeated, sharper this time. 

She returned his hot gaze. “He will not be sailing to Westeros.”

”We _need_ him.” Aegon said, slowly, wanting to make sure that his words were loud and clear. “We need him with us. We need the Second Sons for when we retake what is rightfully ours.” With fire and blood or not an army would be useful. 

Daenerys leaned back into her chair, placing down her cup as she seemed to consider his words. “I understand that.” She said, finally. “From our perspective alone, it would seem vital to bring them with us. But with the right knowledge, our path to justice is far easier than it seems. We have the Dothraki, the Unsullied, the Iron Fleet _and_ three dragons.” 

The way she said it made things seem so much more easier, but Aegon did not want to rely upon what was visible on the surface of the situation alone.

“We don’t know what we’re up against,” Aegon argued back. “Who knows if that’s enough?”

”— We don’t, that’s the problem.” Rhaenys agreed, shifting her weight from one feet to another. “We _don’t_ know if that’s enough, which is why it would be fatal to leave them behind. It’s too risky, Dany.” Her voice was soft when she spoke, but there was a sturdiness to it. She meant to get her point straight and clear. 

”I have already made my decision,” Daenerys said sternly, leaning back. “And what you say is not entirely true. We _do_ know what we are up against.”

”Do we?” Rhaenys inquired, raising a perfect brow. Daenerys hesitated to speak again. 

“How?” Aegon asked, his voice a whisper in the air. He felt dizzy, like someone was squeezing his brain, but worst of all he felt his blood boiling. _Calm down_ , he thought to himself. He was drunk. Now was not the time to argue, and yet he found Daenerys’ decision to be irrational. He had never been fond of Daario, but even he could admit that leaving the man and the Second Sons behind would be an unwise decision. 

“Tyrion told you.” It was Rhaenys that spoke. Her indigo eyes were a shade lighter in the sunlight, and her skin was like molten bronze and gold. She had an exotic look to her, one that made it difficult for anyone to call her anything but beautiful. However, she looked angry, and that alone was never a good sign.

Rhaenys had always been swift to anger and less patient from years of grief. Her sorrow was built up, and Aegon sometimes worried it would never be washed away. He knew that she could be hostile although she did not want to, that she could be cruel despite her hatred for violence.

Slowly, she approached them from where she had been standing, each step echoing through the room. She had always been good with intimidation. Narrowing her eyes, Rhaenys continued: “You’ve been speaking with him.”

Daenerys did not falter under Rhaenys’ even glare, nor did she deny it. “His advice is good,” she explained. “He knows Westeros more than any of us. He knows what we’re up against, what we might expect. Yes, the Second Sons might prove to be useful but they are also more mouths to feed. We do not _need_ them.” Daenerys stood up. She was almost a head shorter than Rhaenys, and yet she did not appear intimidated. 

“And it has never occurred to you that he might be lying?” Rhaenys asked, her arms still crossed. Aegon felt as if he was in the centre of an oncoming fight. As if he was watching two lionesses circle each other, trading threats.

“Tyrion has proved himself loyal.” Daenerys said, she hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I have named him my Hand.” That sentence stung more than it should have. Rhaenys barked out a laugh: 

“He’s a _Lannister_!” She hissed, her face only inches from her queen’s. “You would rather take advice from a lion than your own kin?” Daenerys did not flinch or back away. She stared right back at Rhaenys with mirroring fire. 

“We cannot judge a man by the wrong-doings of his House. We above all should understand that—“

”He told you to do this, didn’t he?” Rhaenys asked, at last taking a step back. She smiled. “Of course he did, clever little man. . .”

”No one tells me to do anything.” Daenerys said, her patience unwinding. “My decision is final—“

”You are clearly not in the right mind to make a decision.” You could have heard a needle drop. Rhaenys had not raised her voice, she never raised her voice, but Aegon sometimes wished she would. There was something eerie about the way she spoke. It only fuelled the tension in the room. Daenerys looked stunned. 

Then, Rhaenys sighed and averted her gaze to the ground. Taking her queen’s hand into her own, she planted a soft kiss upon the back of it, letting her lips linger on the skin before letting go. “I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely. “I don’t trust Tyrion. I have every right not to. He’s cunning and he’s smart, and that’s dangerous. I—“ she hesitated, the heat in her gaze faltering as she met Dany’s eyes. “I don’t want our House to fall into ruins again. Not by the hands of _them_. . .”

Rhaenys had nudged a soft topic, Aegon could see it in Daenerys face, whose eyes had softened. Daenerys raised a hand to cradle Rhaenys’ face. 

“I need you to _trust_ me. . .”

Rhaenys placed her own hand atop of her queen’s before hastily turning away. 

“I do trust you.” She whispered, then her gaze hardened once again. “But not _him_. I do not understand why we cannot allow the Second Sons to join us.”

“Peace has finally settled in Meereen,” Daenerys said, softly, taking a seat once again. “We will need someone to hold that peace. Daario is a good man. . .” She paused, as if considering her next words. “I know you love him—“

”Have you spoken to him yet?” Rhaenys cut her off, her voice like stone. Daenerys did not answer. “No? What makes you think he will obey your orders?”

”Because I am his queen and I command him to.”

”He has sworn to never leave my side,” Rhaenys argued back. You could hear the hurt in her voice. “He _swore_ to me–“

”He also swore to follow my orders,” Daenerys said. “He promised me. ‘My sword is yours, my life is yours,’ were his words.”

Rhaenys was becoming impatient: “He will not be left behind—“

”My decision is clear—“

”Daario will be going with us!” Aegon at last hollered, sick of their bickering, and turned to look at both of them with fire in his eyes. His head was spinning as much as it was burning, but he forced himself to remain conscious for the sake of their family. “The Second Sons _will_ sail to Westeros, they _will_ help us retake the Seven Kingdoms and bring glory to our lost legacy. . .” he took a deep breath, trying to clear is head. “That is _my_ final decision.” 

When he looked at Daenerys he did not bother to hide his pain. _Tyrion_ was her Hand. Above all things, that was something he could not come to understand. “Why didn’t you tell us?” He asked, his voice hovering above a whisper, but she heard him still. “At the very least me?”

He waited for an answer. That answer that came next was cold: “I am your queen. I don’t have to tell you everything.”

Aegon didn’t say anything, for a while. “Daario will be going with us,” he managed weakly, finally, after what felt like an hour. “By your orders or not, the Second Sons will depart Essos and sail with us to Westeros.”

Daenerys stood up. She looked angry. She never got angry at Aegon. “My decision–“

”If the Second Sons will not depart Westeros then neither will I,” He said, shocked at his own words. He had not meant to say that and he _definitely_ did not mean his words. The shock was evident on both of their faces. The queen looked startled. She looked hurt. 

The silence could have killed anyone that passed by. 

“Is that a threat?” Daenerys breathed, her voice low and stiff. She was obviously forcing down the quiver in it, swallowing down the anger that was rising. Aegon remained still, unable to let go of the tension in his shoulders and head. He felt like throwing up.

“See it as you wish.”

Standing up, hoping and praying to whatever gods could hear him that he would not fall, he swiftly turned to leave the room. His balance was unsteady as he stumbled across the room.  He had to lean on against a wall for balance and support, and slightly flushed at his wounded pride. 

He wasn’t sure whether someone had called after him, he couldn’t focus. His head was a spinning mess. He staggered through the golden halls, ignoring the concerned glances of servants and guards, and tried his utterly best at the very least _appear_ composed. 

Anarchy raged in his mind. 

Of course, he understood Daenerys’ reason for wanting to leave Daario and the Second Sons behind. He supposed that she was right and they didn’t _really_ need them, that Meereen would need a governor after they would depart so that it would not fall to slavery again. However, that did not change the fact that the Second Sons would be _useful_. But that wasn’t the reason to why Aegon was angry. 

Tyrion Lannister was. 

Why hadn’t she told him or sook his council before naming the Lannister her Hand? Did she not trust him enough? Did she not think it necessary? 

Did she not care about his opinion?

There were a lot of answers to the question, and Aegon wasn’t sure if he liked any of them. All he knew was that he needed air, _fresh_ air, and the company of someone who would only bring comfort. 

 _Viserion_. 

But in spite of his desire to visit his dragon he found himself slipping into his own bedroom. He did not have the strength to walk all the way outside, and he _did_ have some dignity left rather then let the whole city think of him as a drunkard. Therefore he decided to seek the solace of his bed, hoping that he would not wretch out his insides on his way there. Fresh air or not, he needed to clear his mind, and what better way than sleep?

However, much to his misery and frustration, he found that his bedroom was already occupied. Had he been sober, he would have perhaps ordered for the guards or even dealt with the intruded himself. However, Aegon was far from sober, and so he simply glared at the unwanted guest. 

“Get out.” He said, lowly, meeting the Lannister’s pitiful gaze with heat. 

“I will, my prince,” he said, pausing. “Eventually. . .” Waddling across the room, he sat down upon one of Aegon’s cushioned chairs as if he had the rights to. He had a cup of what looked like wine in his hand, and promptly poured himself another one before taking a long sip; his eyes lingering on Aegon with a dazed look in them. 

“You’re drunk.” Aegon commented. 

“I can say the same thing about you,” the imp answered, crossing his legs, or _tried_  to. His legs were too short for it to work properly. He leaned back against the cushions, a lopsided smile adorning his scarred face. “Drink more, my prince. It will numb the pain.”

Aegon did not move from where he stood, but he did visibly struggle to maintain his balance. Then, he said: “You’re presence is not welcomed. Leave. _That_ will numb my pain.” He hadn’t meant for it to sound so cruel, but in his defence, no one acted reasonably in their drunken state. However, Tyrion Lannister did not seem to have taken Aegon’s words to heart. 

He didn't even look as if he cared. 

“Ouch,” the imp said, placing a tiny hand on his chest with an expression that looked like he wanted to burst into laughter. “You wound me, dear prince. That shall leave a scar. . .”

Aegon did not move, and Tyrion then _did_ laugh. 

“Gods, you are far too serious. . .” He said, bringing his cup up to his lips and taking another sip. His eyes never left Aegon. “You remind me of someone I know. Or used to. Not sure if that person is dead or not.”

Aegon did not listen to whatever Tyrion was blabbering about, he could barely hear a thing. The Targaryen looked around, spotted a nearby chair, and stumbled towards it. He barely managed to take a seat before his mind went _reeling,_ and turning around, Aegon retched onto the floor. The dwarf watched him do that with an unimpressed expression. Only when Aegon was finished did he speak: 

“Well. . .” Tyrion said. “That said person was a little less drunk, but it’s nice to know I’m in the company of someone who knows how to properly get drunk—“

”Why are you here?” Aegon asked, but his voice was not venomous. If anything, it sounded sad. _Deflated_. Tyrion seemed to have caught that, for he put his cup down and regarded Aegon with an unreadable expression. 

“To talk, my prince,” he finally said after a moment of silence. “Talking helps.”

Aegon shifted in his seat, hoping that he could appear somewhat presentable. The position ended up looking awkward, and his legs ached with the uncomfortable bend he had forced them to. Tyrion’s eyes never left him. 

“Did you know what they called Rhaegar Targaryen?” Aegon visibly stiffened at the mention of his father’s name. ”Of course you do. . . Well, I’ll tell you anyway. _The most handsome man in Westeros,_ they titled him. He had maidens from all different regents swooning over him and his brilliant, mysterious eyes and luscious locks. . . Just as they swoon over you.”

The prince turned to send him a glare, one that was hot and sharp, but Tyrion Lannister did not even flinch. When the imp spoke again, his voice was quiet: 

“You look a lot like him.” He snorted before continuing. “Of course, I’m sure you’ve heard that before, probably much more than you’d like. . . but it’s true. You _do_ look like him.” He waved his short hand: “You know, I saw your father once. Only once. It was at a tourney. They say it was the greatest tourney to have ever set place in Westeros. I was only a boy back then, but a boy can remember a lot of things—“

”If you are going to remind me of how valiantly my father rode, you can simply stop.” Aegon interrupted, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robes. There was a rotten taste on his tongue. He looked at Tyrion with what he hoped was an intense glower, but what probably looked weary. “Or perhaps you want to remind me of when my father rode past my mother and named Lyanna Stark his queen of love and beauty, in front of hundreds of people? Do you want to explain to me in detail her hurt expression, the shock of the crowd, from a short man’s perspective?”

There was silence for a moment.

”No,” Tyrion then said, pausing. “No, I am not here to remind you of that. . . I suppose it was quite crude, what you father did to her? No one deserved that.” He looked at Aegon with sadness and remorse in his discoloured eyes. “Well, no one deserved the fate she got either. . .”

He slipped from his seat and plopped onto the floor with a loud sound. Then, he waddled over to where Aegon was sprawled. He did so slowly, cautiously even, as if he was approaching a wounded animal; but there was no hesitation in his steps. “I’m actually here to talk about _her_.”

That startled Aegon. People rarely spoke to him about his mother. It was usually about his father. Valiant Rhaegar. Noble Rhaegar. _Handsome_ Rhaegar. Even Rhaenys rarely spoke about her. The late Princess Elia was a deep wound to his sister’s soul, who had endured much. Aegon remained silent, letting Tyrion speak: 

“What to say?” Tyrion asked, barking out a laughter and stretching his arms. “I didn’t know her, but your uncle Oberyn told me quite a lot about her. . .” He paused, as if the memory of the Martell brought great pain. “They say she was beautiful, and sweet and kind. . . I don’t doubt any of those claims. I saw her at the tourney, believe it or not. Though only once and in the distance. I never got the honour of speaking to her, she was a princess you see, and _Rhaegar Targaryen’s_ wife. The King didn’t like her but the prince did. Only a few people got the courtesies, and my father preferred to keep me out of public appearances unless it be necessary.

”She was beautiful, yes. More beautiful than Lyanna Stark, if I dare say, although some would argue with me for that opinion. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. . . They’re both buried somewhere, as sad as it is.“ It _was_ sad, Aegon thought. Only the innocent had suffered during the Rebellion. Whatever had happened to those whose hands were stained crimson with blood? They had won glory, riches and fame.

“She had a different kind of beauty compared to the Northern girl.” Tyrion continued. ”Lyanna Stark was proud, they say. _Strong_. She had a wildness to her, something that made it tempting for men to try and tame. The wolf-blood, I’ve heard Northerners say. The Starks have endured much, and they’re stronger than they seem. . .” 

Aegon smiled, although there was no kindness. 

“Are they?”

Tyrion raised his eyes. “Yes.” He said. “It would be ill-wise to underestimate them.”

The prince shifted in his seat. “It would be ill-wise to underestimate _any_ of your enemies.” He said. “No matter how small or strong they seem.”

Tyrion looked as if he was in great pain. “Yes, indeed, my prince.” He said. “Although I can assure you, the Starks are _not_ your enemies.”

There was silence for a long moment as Aegon studied him. Then, at last, he spoke. “Perhaps. But that is not for you to decide.” 

The imp bowed his head. He hesitated before he continued his story:

”Elia was not like Lyanna Stark, no, Elia was gentle. Her beauty came with her laughter, her voice and her smile. Men do not have the same taste in women, and Elia was simply a different attraction. Perhaps that is why your father chose Lyanna, because Lyanna was _different_. Elia was every bit a lady. A  _princess_. She was soft, kind and lovely. I was told that it was easy to care for her.”

”Ser Barristan told me my father was very fond of her. . .” Aegon said, his voice barely audible. He had doubted the knight’s words, even though he had desperately wanted them to be true. He wished he had asked the old knight more about his parents. 

“Ser Barristan was not a man known for lying,” Tyrion said. “He was always true to his words and served the Kingsguard loyally. My nephew’s decision of having him retire was perhaps one of his worst mistakes, and believe me he made a lot of unwise mistakes. . .” He paused.  “If Ser Barristan told you that your father was fond of your mother, I do not doubt his words.”

Aegon managed a smile, although it was faint. It was the first time Aegon had ever genuinely smiled _at_ Tyrion.

”Jon told me she did not deserve my father. . .” He whispered. The man’s words had hurt Aegon. He cared for Jon, and the man was like a second father to him, but they had still hurt. Tyrion shook his head: 

“No, my prince. Rhaegar Targaryen was the one who did not deserve her.” 

For some reason, the imp’s words brought comfort. More comfort than Viserion could have. For a moment, Aegon forgot that he was speaking to a Lannister. He laughed. 

“Dany was right,” he said, grinning widely so that his teeth showed. “Your words are good.” She had called it advice, but Aegon saw it as the same thing. Tyrion had an impressive tongue. He could slither his way through people and had situations like a snake, all with the help of his clever mouth.

The imp approached him, and bravely placed his hands upon Aegon’s thighs. 

“You don’t trust me. . . I understand that.” He said, offering an assuring squeeze. “I find it quite reasonable, actually, but I am not asking you to trust me.” He looked at Aegon with his discoloured eyes. There was a softness to his gaze. “But trust your Queen. She does what she believes is right, and she does not make her decisions lightly but cautiously. She is a lot wiser than she appears to be, but also a lot softer. With the right words and action the strong person Daenerys has shaped herself to be might break. It is your duty to keep it all together. _Do_ your duty.” 

Aegon watched him through hooded eyes, drunk with sleep. 

“I will,” He whispered, pausing. “But do not assume this is a start of a friendship.”

Tyrion smiled. “I would be a fool if I would, my prince.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot shorter than I wanted it to be :/
> 
> I have a lot of feeling concerning Elia Martell. Most of them have to do with what the show did to her.  
> Also: sorry for how long it took to update :(
> 
> Leave a comment if you want to, I love to hear what you guys think <3


	6. Gods and Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to G.R.R. Martin  
> This work is set in an alternate universe.

A part of him still did not want to believe it to be true. 

His past had always been a bittersweet memory. It was a time long lost, years he would never be able to return to unless in dreams, and dreams were seldom comforting. They would only bring pain. Sorrow and pain, over and over again, until Jon would wake up breathless and despairing. 

He would sometimes see his sisters’ faces, smiling and sweet; little wild Arya and ever-polite Sansa. Rarely, he would even glimpse Robb, a mop of Tully-red hair, all Southern-featured except for the cold of the realm in his eyes. But the person he would dream of the most was father. 

It made him sad, to know that even the honourable Eddard Stark was nothing but a memory in his mind as well, dead and buried somewhere in the ground. So was Robb and Catelyn, although Jon had never been close enough with her to see her in his dreams. . .

But not Sansa. Soft Sansa, meek Sansa.  _Sansa_. 

She had changed. Even now, as he looked at her from a distance, he could see that. But so had he. He supposed everyone who had endured as much as the both of them would never be able to stay the same. She was staring at him, intensely, as if he wasn’t real.

Sansa had always been soft. As a young girl, she used to have the shimmer of innocence in her clear blue eyes and a mellow speech, never speaking too loud or rashly. Her manners were courteous, and she had owned a sweet-tooth for lemon cakes; a dessert that Jon had never been fond of. 

But now, as he looked at her, he noticed that there was no innocence left shimmering in her blue eyes, eyes that were no longer clear and bright but deep and full of sorrow, and he knew very well that she had no more taste for lemon cakes. Her hair was the same, and her face as well, but she stood taller than she used to; shivering in the cold. 

The woman that stood before him could have been anyone else but his sister; a wolf who had been pettily tamed by lions. But no, it was Sansa. _Sansa, ever-sweet, Sansa_. . . 

 _What happened to you_? He wanted to ask her, but said no words. King’s Landing had not been gentle with her. _Dire-Wolves do not fare well in the South_ , Jon thought to himself. _Neither do the Starks_. 

But Sansa was a Stark, and she had endured.

She did not say a word, made no noise, but in one swift movement she leapt from where she had been standing still and with a strained, muffled cry ran into his arms. Jon startled, fearing for a moment that she would bolt through him as a mist, not a part of reality but an illusion cast by his mind. But when she collided into him, a hard body against his own, he felt the warmth seeping through the fabric of her cloak and gown, and knew immediately that she was of flesh and whole. 

She clung onto him, her arms woven around his neck, as if she was holding onto dear life. The crowd of wildlings gathered around them had fallen silent at the sight, and watched curiously as they embraced. In his arms she wept. 

“You’re real,” she breathed into his ear. “ _Please_ , tell me you’re real. . .”

But Jon found himself unable to muster an answer. He only clutched onto her tighter, fearful that she would crumble into dust in his arms, and held her close. 

 

 

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

 

 

The night was quick to fall. Days grew shorter as autumn began to turn frail, and soon enough the cold of Winter would take ahold of the land, and then the continent. Nevertheless, it was warm within the tent’s walls, and two figures sat close together, hunched over a red, cackling fire, sharing tales of their youths.

Ghost lay comfortably before Jon’s feet, and Sansa’s fingers would often trail down to brush through the white fur, never straying to far from the dire-wolf’s touch. She was fond of Ghost, for he reminded of her of Lady. 

“Do you forgive father?” He asked her, quietly, after she had told him of her fate. Sansa laughed, as if it was a jest: 

“Father was not at fault for that,” she answered. “I wish I would have realised that sooner. . .” she scoffed, softly, but there was a sadness to it. “It’s all my fault. I begged father to stay in the South. Wept so that I could marry Joffrey. I told the queen of his plans; that he wanted to cancel my betrothal to Joffrey and send me and Arya back to Winterfell. I betrayed father and our family. He lost his head because of it. It’s because of _me_. . .”

”That’s not true,” Jon said softly. “We all did stupid things. You’re not at fault for what happened. No one is to blame but the queen and her son, who is dead.”

Sansa smiled. It was an odd thing. “Yes. He’s _dead_.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I was a stupid girl,” Sansa continued. She had been talking to him for an hour now. Talking was all she seemed to do, but Jon did not blame her. When had been the last time she had ever spoken freely, not as a pretty toy for the king and queen but as Sansa Stark? 

“We were all stupid,” Jon said, hoping his words were a comfort to her. He was staring at the fire, but her eyes were glued on him. She hadn’t looked away from his face ever since she had laid eyes upon it. “We tried to play bigger roles than we were meant to be, and it shattered all of us.”

Silence washed over them for a moment. He turned away from the flames, and met her eyes with fondness. Outside, the wind blew quietly. It wasn’t the same rash, crude winds North of the Wall, but it was still cold and unwelcoming.

“I always thought the gods were kinder,” she said. 

“They can’t aid where they can’t see,” Jon answered. “The gods have no power in the South.” A wildling girl had told him that. Her face was a blur in his mind, and he feared that he would one day forget it.  But it was true. There were no weirwood trees, no eyes that could answer to prayers. What could they do to help poor Eddard Stark when they did not even have the ears to hear or eyes to see?

Sansa was silent for a moment. “No,” Jon looked up at her, blue eyes as cold as ice. “The gods don’t aid because there are no gods.”

Jon Snow would have perhaps, a long time ago, argued against that statement. If he was still the same boy he had been the last time he had seen Sansa, he would have taken great insult. But Jon found himself agreeing with ever word she said, and in acknowledgment nodded. Aye, there are no gods. 

 _And even if there are, they won’t help us_. . .

”What happened to you?” At first, Jon thought he had asked the question. But when he met Sansa’s even gaze he realised she was the one who had spoken. Oh, how he wanted to tell her. To blabber on like a child about historical legends or old myths. But Jon found himself too weary to even retell the tale. 

“A lot of things,” he found himself saying. He tried a smile, but it came off strained rather than genuine. The smile that she shared with him was small:

”Then we have that in common.”

Jon stared at the flames, watched them dance as if he was caught in a trance. He had dealt with fire in the past, both figuratively and literally. A scar was still prominent on his hand and forearm from a nasty burn, and the fiery tresses of a woman he used to love still deeply rooted in his mind. Fire was something that had only brought him pain, and yet he could never be bored of watching it.

 “Where will you go?” Sansa then asked, suddenly, placing a hand atop of his. He saw fear flash before her eyes along with worry. Assuringly, he laid his other hand upon hers and squeezed. 

“Where will _we_ go?”

Relief evidently washed over Sansa, who then smiled sadly. “I don’t know.”

Jon was silent for a moment. Winterfell was still a thought in his mind, a thought he did not want to dwell on lest he develop hope. Hope that would turn out to be fickle and frail. The army of wildlings that were prepared to fight for him were not enough against the Boltons and other Northern armies. It would be a lost cause with a great number of casualties, and Jon had already lost too much. 

He shifted in his seat, his gaze still glued on the flames. “Well, wherever that place is, we go there _together_. . .”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. . .” Sansa spoke, softly, her voice almost lost to the night. The hand beneath his tensed. “Winter is coming.”

A strange feeling suddenly irked Jon. In his mind he saw a pair of blue eyes like biting ice, hollow and cold with no mercy or love. He remembered a laugh, crude and taunting, directed at him as he had struggled to fight. Worst of all he remembered the cold frost in the air when the Others had attacked with their army of wights. The night had been cold, he  had feared the sun would never rise, and it was a situation that he could not ignore. 

The men of the Night’s Watch would fight. The wildlings would fight. But only a fool would deem that enough. They needed an army, Westeros united and willing to set aside their quarrels for a war greater than any war the world would ever see. How difficult would that be? 

They were facing death. No one can beat death.  

He frowned, deeply, and felt as if burdens of many more years had been place despite upon his shoulders. “Winter has already come,” he said, looking into her eyes, that were vivid and wide. He had to tell her. She _needed_ to know. “And the dead with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally suppose to be an Aegon chapter but I couldn’t do my boy Jon like that.  
> Jon Snow is my all-time favourite character in the books. 
> 
> Sansa and Jon are finally reunited! I loved their reunion in the show, but I wanted to do something a little different.
> 
> This chapter is really short, I know and I’m sorry, but the next update should be up soon. Thank you for the comments and kudos


	7. Into the West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: characters belong to G.R.R. Martin  
> This work is set in an Alternate Universe.

The wind did little help to wash away yesterday’s hangover.

Aegon felt _miserable_. His head still stung and there was a strange taste lingering in his throat. He had woken up at midnight, alone in his room, still sprawled queerly on a chair with all the candles blown out. When the first rays of dawn had appeared he had thrown up again; and felt even worse than before.

In spite of both those things he had somehow managed to force himself into a bath and, with the help of servants, rinsed himself so that he was pristine and polished. He _looked_ clean, but felt wretched inside. 

The servants had braided his hair back into a single plait that reached down to his waist and covered him in rich, perfumed oils. He had never liked scented products, but it helped extinguish the heavy smell of alcohol. He tried to forget yesterday’s regrets, but the thought of Daenerys came to him easily, and the feeling of guilt with it. 

The Queen was not merciful. She hesitated to forgive as well, and did not do so easily. Ser Jorah had been one of the few who had suffered her wrath, and she had _loved_ him. In the way a daughter would love her father, or a student their teacher. 

All he could do was pray and hope that the love she had for him would spare his fate. 

A servant girl had come into his room with clean clothes, and claimed that they had specifically been picked by the queen herself. The robes were black, scaled as a dragon, and when caught in the sun they reflected a blood-red colour. However, when his fingers came to   touch the fabric it felt soft beneath his skin. They were light upon his shoulders, fit for the journey ahead. 

He had tasted the salt of the air upon his tongue before he had caught sight of the docks, and fleet that floated close to it. His place was upon the queen’s ship, the one they had named Nymeria, a tribute to Rhaenys’ and Aegon’s Dornish heritage. 

He found himself wordlessly led upon a boat, and even as he was rocked side to side with the waves and hoisted up onto Nymeria, he remained silent. The crewmen were yelling st each other, rising the sails that had been painted black. The red three-headed dragon in the centre of them burned like the sun. 

Staring at the sea, Aegon found himself at loss for words. 

The sun was rising, indicating that soon enough the fleet would depart the shores, and thus Essos. He would not look back even when the sails would be set, and perhaps never return. It was a thought Aegon did not want to dwell on for too long, in fear that he would grow timid and restless. 

He felt sad. Yes, that was the word. Sad. There was a strange emotion whirling in the bottom of his stomach, a feeling of longing. He did not want to leave, not truly. They had built an empire in Essos, freed and fought, lost and won, and now they were leaving it all behind. 

For victory, he liked to think. _Justice_. 

Or perhaps it would lead them only to doom and death.

“I see you have made your final decision.” Turning around, he met Daenerys’ eyes with an apologetic look. She had an unreadable expression on her face, which made it difficult to guess whether she was still angry with him or not. _They say no one should dare anger a lioness_ , he thought to himself. _What of a she-dragon_?

Taking her hand into his, he held it for a long moment, allowing silence to settle between them while the anarchy of preparation unwinded around them. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, wincing at the scratchiness of his voice. He hadn’t said a word since the day before Clearing his throat, he tried again. “I am sorry. I hope you understand that the things I said yesterday were spoken in anger. There is no other place I would go if you would not be there. I have sworn to serve you. I would never leave you.”

Daenerys did not say anything for a moment, her eyes were fixed on Aegon like stone. “I know.” She raised her hand towards his face, her fingers brushing a strand of fallen silver behind his hair. “I wouldn’t let you.” He managed a smile, one only meant for her, and when his lips came to touch her forehead he let them linger for a while. 

When he pulled away she was still looking at him. Dany placed a hand on his chest, her fingers fiddling with the scales. “This suits you,” She whispered. Leaning back she pulled out a small brooch. It was beautiful, silver, in the shape of two dragon-heads. Wordlessly she fastened it upon his chest, right where his heart was beating beneath.

”Thank you,” he said, suddenly, not sure what else to do. “For the clothes. I like them.” 

“You’re welcome.”

A moment of silence passed between them, where they simply stood close, before soundlessly she took ahold of his thick braid, twining it in her hand. Her violet eyes inspected it closely. There was warmth in them. “And this.” She whispered, her gaze meeting his. “You look like a Khal. . .”

He smiled. “Well. . . you are my Khaleesi.” 

She smiled, though there was sadness with the joy. Daenerys didn’t say anything for a long time, only stared up at his face, with awe and love that he returned. When she did speak again her voice was low, almost lost in the wind: “You are what I would have imagined Rhaego to look like. . .” she averted her eyes so that she looked East, at the land they might never return to. 

Aegon refused to follow her gaze, knowing it would only bring him heavy pain, and instead pulled her close, ignoring the passing soldiers and men around them. _Rhaego_. A name that brought forth torment. A name she would never forget. 

Her voice sounded broken as she continued: “I still think about him, _every_ night, what could have been. He would have been five. . . I like to think that he would have been strong. That he could already mount a horse, and that he would ride as fast as the wind. That his skin would be a deep bronze and his eyes as black as coal; but his hair – his hair would be silver. . .” 

Aegon brushed his fingers through her fair tresses. They barely reached her shoulder blades, where they had been scorched before. It was a sensitive memory. Their past was not an easy thing. Dany had felt trapped, then she had felt happy, and then there had been nothing but pain. Pain and loss and sadness.

” _She_ took him from me—“

“Yes,” Aegon said softly, leaning back so that he could cradle her face in his hands. “But she’s gone now. You heard her scream. You watched her burn.”

Dany’s eyes were hot. It was as if there was a raging fire trapped within them. “She deserved worse.”

”I know. . .” He agreed, pulling her close again. He paused before adding: “ _Everyone_ who has wronged us do.”

He turned so that the two of them faced West, resting his arm around her shoulders. She let him, and he took it as a sign of forgiveness. Neither of them said a word, they simply gazed as if they were caught in a dream. A dream that once seemed too distant to even reach. Even as the men around them continued to holler out orders, and the ship not only began to rock side to side but also steer _forward_ , they remained silent. As the salty winds continued to blow they allowed the dream to wash over them. 

At some point, he let his arm fall. Daenerys did not look away, she did not even seem to notice as he took a step back. Her eyes were glued on the horizon, almost fluttered shut, and her lips were parted. Missandei stood beside her. Her eyes, too, were fixed on what was ahead.

Aegon smiled as he walked away. He did not want to disturb her. 

Most of the crewmen had already grown easy. At times they would adjust sails to suit the winds, but most of them were relaxed. Some leaned against the railing while others sat upon barrels, sharing drinks and food. It would not be a long journey. The Narrow Sea was, well, _narrow_. The Dothraki remained restless, as he had expected them to. Never in history had anyone been able to force them and their horses upon ships, and yet Daenerys had done just that. 

He could see her ruling the world. It would be a pretty picture. But, alas, no good ruler would seek to dominate the whole world. 

Slowly, he found himself leaning against a railing as well. Looking down, he could see nothing but rippling tides and the deep, black water. The ocean had always frightened him, the darkness and the deep mysteries that lurked inside. Mysteries that they would perhaps never be unsolved. It made him feel nauseous to think about, but also intimidated. Slightly frightened, even. 

The world had a history. One day they too would become a part of it.

He startled when he felt a hand suddenly grab his shoulder. Spinning around sharply, he met Rhaenys’ bright gaze with wide eyes. She let out a hearty laugh. “Easy there.” Her voice was gentle, and it almost got carried away with the wind. “We don’t want you to fall. What will the noble lords of Westeros think when they hear that the Dragon Prince died via drowning?”

He shoved her, though only lightly. “They would find the Princess Rhaenys guilty of murder.”

She laughed again and moved to stand beside him. Her hair was undone. No fine braids adorned the dark tresses, and they moved like waves in the wind. However, her gaze was not focused on the sea but him. She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s wrong?”

”Why do you always assume something is wrong?” He asked, casting her an impish side-glance before resting his weight upon his elbows. She pinched his waist, playfully: 

“Because you’re brooding.” Her voice was only a little mischievous, though there was a hardness to it as well. She meant to get her answer. “You brood when you’re overthinking or nervous. So. . . What’s wrong?”

Aegon could not see the use in lying to her. “I fear for what is ahead.” He said, gazing West. “It all seems so easy. Too easy. It makes me. . . _uneasy_.” He cringed at his words, and smiled when she laughed. 

“You should be a poet,” she joked, before her face turned serious again. “Although I see what you mean. We have come so far, and right now victory could as very well be in our grasps. . . but it’s difficult to hand over your hopes  too soon.”

There was silence, except for the raging sea below them. 

“A part of me hoped it would never end,” he whispered, knowing only she could hear. “Essos, I mean. Freeing cities from tyrants, breaking the chains off of slaves and watch the dragons grow and grow. . .” he looked up, at Rhaegal and Viserion who flew close together, high up in the sky. Drogon was ahead of them in the distance, ever daring, always alone. Daenery’s dragon had grown independent through his time spent alone whereas Aegon and Rhaenys’ were seldom seen apart. 

“It seems so strange to know it has ended. That it’s over.”

Rhaenys’ hand came to press between his shoulder blades assuringly. She leaned against him, and he allowed her head rest upon his shoulder so that her face was pressed against his neck. They stood in content silence for a moment:

“She looks happy.” Rhaenys whispered. Both of them turned their heads to look at their queen. Daenerys still had her eyes on the West, with a dazed and lost expression. She looked at peace. “She doesn’t seem angry with you.”

Aegon smiled. “She isn’t.”

Rhaenys looked at him for a long time, as if she was judging on whether he was joking or not, and then burst out laughing. “Of course not– she could never be angry with you.” She looked at her brother with a fond expression. “None of us ever can.”

Aegon found that difficult to believe. He was always furious with himself. There was not one thing he was not frustrated with. Inhaling sharply, he rested his head atop of his sister’s, allowing the wind to whip through their clothes and hairs. He could taste the salt of the sea in the air, floating all around them. “How did you manage to convince her?” He asked, suddenly, remembering yersterday’s mishap. He had left the two of them alone, and the Second Sons were aboard with them. 

“I didn’t,” Rhaenys answered, truthfully. “I apologised. I told her you eventually would too. . . she simply changed her mind.”

The prince frowned. “That’s not very like her.”

Rhaenys glanced at her and then back at him. “You have your way of getting what you want, if it’s what you think is right. . .” she hesitated. “You might not realise it, but Dany can’t resist you. She certainly can’t lose you. What you said yesterday was a _threat_ to her, even though all of us knew you wouldn’t have the balls to leave us.”

He shoved her, harder this time, so that her laughter blended with the ocean breeze. There was light in her eyes, a sheen he had not seen in a long time. “You’re happy.” He said. It was a statement. Only the foolish would not be able to see it. 

“I am, brother.” Rhaenys agreed, leaning towards him again, this time winding her arms around his torso so that they hugged tightly. “We’re going _home_. . .”

Aegon looked into the West. The dragons were soaring in the distance now, barely visible, only three little dots on the horizon. _Yours is the song of ice and fire_ , Rhaenys had once told him. _For that reason father named you Aegon. You are the Prince that was promised_. . . He watched silently as the sun kissed the sea, painting the sky in hues of reds and yellows. 

 _Was it worth it_? The things he would do to be able to ask his father that. _Was the song ever meant to be sung_?

When Aegon had drawn his first breath into the world, a comet had flown across the sky. It was a bleeding star, just as the one in the prophecy, but he had not been born amidst smoke and salt. Daenerys had been born on a volcanic island, by the shores of the salty sea, but no red star had bled in the sky upon her arrival. There had only been a storm, the worst one people had ever seen. 

The question had lingered in their minds for a long time. Who was the prince? Which one of them was promised to save the world? His father had believed it to be himself. The prophecy had driven him to subtle madness, and the kingdom along with their family shattered into ruins because of it. Aegon worried that it was neither of them, and there was still a long way before the prophecy would begin to unwind. 

But looking at the dragons, he couldn’t help but wonder. If only one of them was destined for greatness, what would happen to the other two?

Aegon gazed into the West, at the bleeding red sky, and could only hope that it was not doom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re sooo close to Westeros!!  
> Sorry, another short chapter. I hope it isn’t getting boring :(
> 
> If you enjoy this work so far, don’t be scared to leave kudos or a comment ♡ my mood literally comes up when I see a notification and it helps me write. 
> 
> Next chapter should be up soon. Ily all


	8. A Shadowed Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: characters belong to G.R.R. Martin  
> This work is set in an Alternate Universe 
> 
> [noteworthy: There is sexual content in the start of the chapter. It is -not- explicit, but clearly there ]

His room was bathed in darkness save for one, single candle. The flame was low, warm, and casted flickering shadows upon the wooden walls of the cabin. Even though Aegon lay upon his back, he could feel the gentle rhythm of the boat, rocking back and forth like he was a babe in a cradle. It helped ease his mind and soothe the tension in his muscles; so that he allowed himself to sigh into the soft mattress beneath him. 

Sleep to some was a sweet thing, but he rarely slept easy. Often, nightmares would plague his mind. They were all the same. He was alone, it was dark, _cold_ , and his hands were torn and bloody. In one hand he clutched a pendant, and in the other a sword. A bold wind would come and sweep through him and with it a terrible scream; then he would feel nothing but the frost in his bones, hushing the fire within him. 

Aegon would wake up, gasping, dreading to sleep again. 

But this night would be different, he could tell. His mind was at peace. Something that did not happen often. If he would be lucky, there would be no dreams at all, whether they‘d be good or bad. He would wake up before he even realised he had fallen asleep, and the fresh morning rays would come greet him by kissing his face with their warmth. 

Closing his eyes, Aegon hoped only for the best. He felt more restless the further they would sail, knowing how close they were to their destination. He could almost _see_ for himself the green dales of the foreign land, the land that was his birthright. He could picture the towering mountains, the rocky shores and flowering meadows. He could picture himself standing beside the Iron Throne, the one described as beastly and horrifying, with Daenerys sitting on top of it.  

However, much to his shock and surprise, he felt the mattress sink beside him, and visibly tensed because of it. Startled, he made the move to rise, but stopped immediately when a gentle hand pressed him down by the shoulder, shushing him quietly. 

Strangely enough, Aegon found himself obeying. Any sane man would rise and check to see whether danger lurked by, but he felt. . . safe. As if he _knew_ no harm would come done. No person on the ship would enter Aegon’s cabin without permission, that is besides his sister and queen.

Why hadn’t he heard either of them enter? 

It was Daenerys. It _had_ to be Dany. 

But Aegon would be a fool were he to say that the hand pressing against his chest was his queen’s. He could recognise Dany by touch alone, scent and voice. Whoever was on the bed beside him was not her. Yet he permitted it. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. 

Reality sunk in slowly, like a mellow tide. _I’m dreaming_ , he thought to himself, smiling. _It’s a dream_. . .

He had only once dreamed of love-making, as awkward as it sounded. He had been fourteen, almost a man, and in his dream it had been Daenerys. It had not been sweet, for she had been nothing but a girl, and there was only sadness in their touches. Both had been crying, aching with sorrow, and their doings had been done in desperation for escape. She had been begging for him to ease her pain, pleaded for him to be her first. The dream had come to him upon Dany’s wedding night with Khal Drogo, and Aegon had woken up horrified.

The bed shifted again as the stranger moved. The hands that were upon him were gentle, the touch even more so, and Aegon found himself sighing as they slid down his body. He was fully clothed, but wished he was not. 

Aegon had only had a few lovers, two precisely. A servant girl had been his sweetheart when they had dwelt with Khal Drogo and his _khalasar,_ but she had passed away shortly after the Khal’s death, when Daenerys and the remainder of her people had been forced to travel through a wasteland of dust and stone. The Red Waste, Aegon remembered it being called, and they had lost many people. After the incident, Dany vowed to never lose again.

Then there was Daenerys, his second and his sworn last. His queen and the fire burning in his heart. There had also been a fleeting and strange time when Rhaenys’ drunken lips had met his, but it had been one night and neither of them had spoken of it again. 

But _this_. This was different. The hands that were upon him, _caressing_ him, were not a woman’s, and surely not ones he recognised. He let them touch him, and comfortably allowed the dream to unfold. 

 _It is only a dream_ , he thought to himself. _And it is pleasant and kind. What harm could this dream do_? 

Soon enough he felt a pair of lips upon his own, and Aegon melted against them. He found himself completely unwinding against the stranger, breathless at every touch and shared kisses. He felt hunger creep up in the bottom of his stomach, making him become undone by every whisper and motion. 

The time stretched on slowly, and with each minute a fabric of clothing slipped off. For a moment, Aegon feared it wasn’t a dream, and that a stranger had truly snuck into his bed. That he was betraying his queen, in a way he would never want to betray her. But when the hands on his waist became rougher, and the pressure between his hips more tense, each breath they shared more strained– he knew it was too good to be true. The moment they were sharing was passionate. It didn’t feel like a coupling by the act of strangers but _lovers_. 

 _And who else do I love but my queen_? 

No one precisely, but the lips on his skin did feel good. And when the stranger’s pace became more bold, Aegon dared unleash sounds he would never make in the company of others. 

He at last managed to open his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious man, but found it difficult with their rocking. The man’s face was buried in the prince’s silvery tresses, the soft lips busy on his neck, so there was nothing for Aegon to see but dark hair and a muscled back. 

He closed his eyes again, allowing himself to get lost in the sensation of pure ecstasy and bliss. He let lust consume him whole. 

“Aegon,” the man called. His voice was deep, and yet it sounded as if it belonged to a boy. “Aegon. . .” He sang again.

 _Aegon he may call me_ , the prince thought to himself. _Over and over again_. . . 

“Aegon.” The voice sounded distant this time. It was muffled, as if his head had been dipped into water, and the person was calling for him hovered above the surface. Aegon frowned, noticing that the warmth of the body atop of his was dwindling. 

“Aegon!” It was a shout this time, and he woke up gasping, greeting his sister’s familiar face with alarm. 

He was on his bed, _alone_ , sweaty and tangled in his sheets. Sunlight streamed through the window on the far side of the cabin, bathing the room in bright colours. Rhaenys stood beside him, an odd look on her face, with crossed arms. She stared down at her brother as if he was mad. 

He looked back at her in return, irritated that he couldn’t control his breathing, for his breaths came out ragged and deep. _A dream it was, indeed_. . . He thought, and cursed himself, for a part of him wished it wasn’t so.

Rhaenys hesitated for only a moment, but eventually took a seat beside him. 

“You alright?” 

He nodded, though he must’ve looked like a fool doing so. 

“Yeah, fine.” He managed out, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Why are you here? What’s wrong?” 

 _Why did you have to wake me up_?

Rhaenys offered him a smile. “Our queen wants to speak with us,” she explained, rising up. Walking towards a nearby chair and tossed him his clothes. “Both of us. I believe it’s urgent.” 

He nodded, quickly dressing himself although he couldn’t dress away the blush on his face. Was there even the slightest chance Rhaenys somehow knew? He had a strange feeling that she was seeing right through him; that his dream had been an open book to her to inspect. Did she _know_ about the dream?

What a dream it had been. . .

Aegon hoped– _prayed_ – not. She couldn’t—

“You talk in your sleep,” she said, suddenly, her indigo eyes meeting his. There was a slight trace of mischief in them. _Oh, no_ – “Well, I wouldn’t consider _moaning_ talking, but you make noises, I mean.” 

He couldn’t help but bury his face into his hands, and if possible turn even redder when she laughed. “How much?” He asked, unable to meet her eyes. “How much did you hear?”

”Enough,” Rhaenys stated, sternly, a ghost of a smile on her lips as she tried to appear serious again. “Almost made me feel bad having to disturb you.” 

He sighed, knowing that she would never let him be for it. He could only hope that she would not ask further questions, but was immediately disappointed: 

“Is Dany truly that good that you feel the need to dream about her?” She teased, grinning widely. Together, they exited his cabin, greeting the morning sun and fresh smell of the salt and wild breeze. He didn’t answer her, so she continued: “Are you going to tell her? Does she know?”

”No, she does _not_.” Aegon said. “And you will _not_ tell her.”

”Oh, please– I feel like she ought to know. I mean, if I would have a man dreaming about me every night I’d be pleased to—“

”Prince. Princess.” Both of them turned to greet Marselen. He was fully armoured, as the Unsullied always were, and his hands were neatly tucked behind his back. “If it does not trouble you, I ask you to deliver this message to the queen.” 

Aegon smiled, fully turning so that he faced the man. Marselen had lost quite a lot. First his freedom, then his. . . manhood and finally two brothers. All he had left was his sister. Aegon respected him. He, too, in a way could relate to what the Targaryens were struggling with. “No trouble at all,” the prince answered. 

Marselen bowed his head before continuing: “The winds have been just. If all goes planned, we should reach the shores of your homeland within a day or two, no more. We set sail for the Dragon Stone.” 

Aegon frowned. “Dragonstone?” He asked, startled, turning towards his sister with a confused look, a look that she mirrored. “I thought we were going to Dorne?” Jon was waiting for him there. 

”Our Queen’s orders,” Marselen answered curtly before bowing again, leaving as swiftly as he had appeared. Rhaenys still had a frown in her face. 

“Perhaps _that’s_ what our queen wanted to talk to us about.”

Aegon nodded, though he was not pleasant, and gazed West. There was nothing in the distance then the sea, but he trusted Marselen’s words. A day or two left of their journey. It wasn’t nearly enough time to let him think. . .

”Come,” Rhaenys said, grabbing his forearm and pulling him away. “Our Queen awaits.”

 

 

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

 

 

”Dragonstone is the safest place we could think of right now,” Daenerys explained. Her cabin was barely a bedroom and more of a councillors room. They were gathered around a table, the people Daenerys trusted the most. Missandei stood by her left and Tyrion her right. Daario was pacing back and forth the room, in deep thought, and Grey Worm guarded the door, though from whom Aegon wasn’t so sure. “It is a good place to settle and set forth strategies for the battles to come. No one will dare try take it while we hold it. Tyrion has told me it has been left abandoned after Stannis Baratheon went North. . . where is Stannis now?”

Tyrion was not slow to answer. “Dead, my queen.” All of them looked at him startled and he shrugged. “Believe me. Those news were as much of a shocker to me as they are to you.”

None of them needed to ask how Tyrion got all of his information. Varys would whisper into his ears lullabies, sweet and soft, before flying away with his little birds. The spider would appear and go as he pleased, never straying too far so that he would lose control. The last time Aegon had seen the eunuch had been a month ago, he had disappeared as a shadow in the night. 

”So Dragonstone is free to take?” Rhaenys asked, leaning against the table with a slight smile. “Poetic, isn’t it? When the Targaryens first went to Westeros they settled there. Now we return there again.”

” _With_ dragons,” Aegon added. “I agree, it is a safe route to take. However, I’ve heard that it isn’t a place known for good harvest. How will we presume to feed our armies? We barely have enough food to suffice us all now.”

”We could start off with trying to gain alliances,” Rhaenys suggested, turning to Tyrion. “I’m sure we will have word from Dorne soon enough. You know Westeros better than any of us. Who would be willing to join us?”

Aegon was shocked at the kindness Rhaenys was displaying towards the Lannister. There had not been an insult in her sentence and she did not look upon the short man with disdain. 

Tyrion paused and seemed to be thinking. “The Tyrells have little reason to stay loyal to my sister, especially since she’s queen now. Not everyone is happy with Margaery’s replacement. . . Their family owes everything to yours. They were a small house once, but that changed when your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror gave them dominion over the Reach after House Gardeners extinction.” He paused. “They might just be the very solution to our problem.”

”And you are sure that they can be trusted?” Dany asked. 

“Trust is always questionable, but I highly doubt they would rather see a Lannister sitting atop of the Iron Throne than a Targaryen. The previous queen was much beloved, and I’m sure they would care to see her death avenged.” 

 _And do you_? Aegon wanted to ask him, but minded his tongue. 

“Who’s lord of the Reach now?” Rhaenys asked. 

“ _Lady_ , actually. The lady Olenna Tyrell. Willas Tyrell, her grandson, is the heir. Not much of a threat. He’s a cripple, and not fond of fighting.” _Cripples can be dangerous too_ , Aegon thought to himself. _Imps as well. Lions still roar and roses have thorns_. . .

Daenerys nodded, solemnly, taking in her Hand’s words slowly. 

Two days. They had two days before they would reach the shores of Westeros. It seemed so close, and yet it felt like a thousand years of distance. Aegon remembered a time, one that was so far away, when he had never even dared think of reaching it. Westeros, the place of his birth, had been a dream. It once seemed that death was an easier path to take than ever returning. 

And yet here they were gathered. _Returning_. Aegon wasn’t sure whether he should have addressed the place as home. Westeros was as much of a foreign land to him as Essos had been. If there was ever a place in the world he truly belonged, it was upon Viserion’s back, soaring through the sky and towards the sun and never touch the earth again. He would fly, West to nowhere, and perhaps never return. 

Aegon almost smiled. No. He did have some courage, but he was not so bold to ever dare leave Daenerys. His mind suddenly wandered to a shadowed face, the one he had not been able to glimpse in his dream, where he had been engulfed in the arms of a lover. The person had not been Dany, but had felt as sweet either way. 

Dreams could be prophetic, and a part of him hoped that the stranger had not been a cruel trick forged by his imagination. Yet, a bigger part of him prayed that it _was_ only a dream. Nothing more but his mind’s tribute to rest. 

How very strange it had been, and startling. . . Aegon had never thought that a possible lover of his could be a man. Actually, he had never even _thought_ of ever taking another lover. Dany was the one he was promised to, even though he could sire no heirs from her. He found that he didn’t really care. She was the woman he loved, and as the Dothraki called it, _his moon and stars_. 

And yet he found himself thinking of the stranger—

“Aegon.” He was pulled back to reality, having not even realised he had strayed from it in the first place. Looking around, he noticed that everybody was staring at him. Daenerys had asked him a question, a question he had not heard: 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

Daenerys looked at him evenly. She did not repeat her question, but instead turned to Rhaenys, who looked as if she was struggling to hold a straight face. His sister’s lips were twitching, and there was light in her eyes. It did not go unnoticed by their queen. “Is there something the two of you mean to tell me?”

”No,” Aegon answered, just as Rhaenys said ‘perhaps.’ 

Clearing her throat, the princess added: “But it’s not a subject that must be addressed now, but rather in private. Aegon, our queen asked you what our status is with Jon?” Aegon wanted to thank her for coming to his defence, but also curse her at the same time. 

“I have not received word from him.”

Daenerys raised a brow. “Still?” Her voice was stiff. She did not bother to hide her dissatisfaction. It made him tense. Daenerys did not trust Jon, just as Aegon had not trusted Jorah. They both had their reasons.

”I’m sure this is just a simple delay. It is not easy to track us, especially since we are no longer in Meereen.” 

Daario, who had remained silent throughout most of the meeting, finally spoke: “We should have gotten word from him while we were still _in_ Meereen,” he leaned onto the table, his blue eyes gentle but stern. He had shaved off his beard and moustache by Rhaenys’ command, although the man had been very fond of his facial hairs, and his blue tresses were dark by the roots. He was looking less of a court fool as the days would pass, but the clean cut did compliment his face.

In all honesty, Aegon could not see what Rhaenys saw in him. For some reason, his sister was very fond of the sell-sword, and it would seem that he did have affection for her in return. Daario was not an unattractive man, but he was more average than he was handsome. 

Aegon wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m sure he has his reasons for the delay. Jon would not betray me.” But doubt stirred in his mind. _Would he_? 

“With Dorne or not, we cannot deny that the odds do not favour our opponents,” Rhaenys came to his defence when the others gave him sceptical looks. “There are more houses in Westeros than Lannister, Martell and Tyrell are there not? Who holds the North?”

”The Boltons,” Tyrion sighed. “My father named Roose Bolton warden of the North after they helped him murder their former King. I fear their loyalty lies with my sister.”

”Their loyalty may be questioned when they will see a dragon fly over their heads,” Aegon said as an idea struck in his mind. A foolish, half-mad idea, but an idea nonetheless. He turned to Dany to ask her for permission. “My queen, allow me to go to Winterfell and have the Boltons swear their fealty to us, as our ancestor did hundreds of years before us with the Starks.”

Daenerys’ eyes were soft. “Aegon,” she said, her voice low. “I cannot risk losing you of all people. Marching over to Winterfell alone is a death wish.”

”I won’t be alone,” he insisted. All eyes on the room widened at his words as they realised what he was suggesting. “I will have Viserion. They cannot strike us down from the sky with mere crippling arrows, and we would burn them to ash before they could even dare try.”

She seemed to consider his words, but still looked unconvinced.

”Dragons are not invincible,” Tyrion Lannister said, a strange look in his eyes. “They can be harmed.”

 _Is that a threat_? Aegon almost asked him, but knew it would be cruel and rash. 

“What harm can flayed men do?” He asked. He remembered being a small boy, barely able to comprehend the names of his few servants, being taught the history of Westeros by Jon. The old man had drawn every sigil belonging to the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms, both great and small. He had not stopped forcing each name into Aegon’s mind until the young boy remembered it. _You need to recognise them by their colours and words_ , Jon had told him. _As every king has before you_. . .

Jon had been so convinced that when they would return home, Aegon would be the one sitting atop of the Iron Throne. The old man had not been fond of the idea of Dany being queen, although he had never spoken of his opinion out loud. He had wanted Aegon to become king. A part of him feared the man still did. 

Tyrion did not answer him, and so Aegon turned to Daenerys with pleading eyes: “Please, my queen,” he said, softly. “Allow me to do this for you.”

Looking into her eyes, he saw that she could not reject. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for how long it took to update.
> 
> I originally wrote the dream for fun and was going to cut it all out, but I have decided to keep it for the sake of the length of the chapter.  
> The reason for why it took so long: I had already written the second half of the chapter, but for some odd forsaken reason it did not save?? I was forced to rewrite it again, explaining why it might be a tad bit sloppy. . .
> 
> There will be no update for a couple of days. I will not plan on writing until next Monday. Thank you all for understanding.


	9. Sunlit Halls

Dragonstone reminded her of a place born from her deepest nightmares. From the tall watchtowers that hovered up into the grey sky, and to the snarling gargoyles perched upon each pillar and balcony. Each one had wings, spread far and wide, resembling dragons or something else, far more frightening. It made her stomach ill and uneasy.

Valyrians used to play with dark magic, the tales would tell, forcing slave women to lay with their dragons; in hopes that they would give birth to monstrous men. Looking at the statues, all of them staring down at her with their cold and lifeless eyes, she wondered whether they had been sculpted in the image of such miseries. Some of them looked human, or something close to that latter, twisted in a way that made it seem as if they were pleading for help; cursing those who had conjured them into existence. It only made Dragonstone look all the more unpleasant. The walls were dark, and the rocky shores unwelcoming. 

Yet, Rhaenys felt relief flood over her at the sight of the foggy fortress, along with sadness. Like her queen, she too had been born upon the forsaken island, amidst both salt and smoke. But no one had ever dared question if _she_ was the the prince that was promised, and it would seem no one ever would either. It was either Aegon or Daenerys _. Aegon or Daenerys_. . .

 _Neither of whom remember our family_ , she thought to herself, bitterly. _Only I remain left who recalls the sunlit halls of King’s Landing; my father’s laugh and mother’s warmth_. . . 

She wanted to weep. 

But she would much rather face the gods’ wrath than appear weak. _Crying won’t bring back the dead_ , she thought to herself. _I am the blood of the dragon. Dragons have no tears to spill_. But Dragons feel sadness ever the same, and sometimes she feared that grief would consume her before death could. 

“Welcome home my queen,” she heard Tyrion Lannister say some distance away. _This is my home as well_. . . but she did not say that aloud. 

The gargoyles were equally as terrifying as they had been what felt like a thousand years ago. Back then, she had been in warmth of strong arms that belonged to a person lost her, with a tender voice that could so easily banish away the fear. Although only three in her memory, she had felt much older. Clutching onto soft, silver hair and with her face buried in the crook of her father’s neck, she had known what safety felt like before she even knew what true danger was. 

“They won’t harm you,” he had said to her once, laughing softly when she refused to let go of him, even as he lowered her down onto her soft bed. It had been so very soft. . . Now, she found that every bed she slept upon was hard and uneasy, and she would always wake up restless and aching in the night. But she would do anything to turn back time, even if it meant being frightened of the statues again. She would welcome back the fear if it meant _he’d_ return with it.

Dragonstone was still a sweeter memory than King’s Landing. On Dragonstone there had been no displeasing grandfather or Mad King. It had only been her and—

And _them_. . .

Her father was a more bittersweet thought than her mother. They were both frail in her mind, almost lost, but memories still. Memories she was afraid to forget. He used to sing to her, every night, even though other lords thought it strange. Rhaenys remembered how kind and soft he had sounded, how gentle his fingers had been upon each instrument and how easily he had picked her up and held her. His laughter had rung like bells, and he had always smelled like fresh air upon green fields. But what she remembered most were his eyes, deep purple, always sad. How she had always craved to make him happy. 

Her mother had once told her that she had her father’s eyes, and that she was the only thing in the world that could make him laugh. It had been during one of the final days, before he had left. 

He had kissed her on her forehead and promised of return. _I will be back, sweet Rain._ _I’ll make things better_ , he had told her, cradling her small face in his hand. Whatever prayer she had sung that night had been left unanswered. He had not returned the next day, nor the second, or any days that followed after that. 

Her grandmother’s had found her under her father’s bed, crying, where she had refused to leave. Rhaenys had dreamed of him that night, floating in transparent water. There had been blood coating his pale hair. Lifeless eyes, eyes that used to be so warm, stared up into nothing. Rhaenys had only crawled out from under the bed with the sweet promise that she would see him again. A promise that had never been– and never would be– fulfilled.

Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honourably—

“And Rhaegar died. . .” She whispered to herself, but her voice was lost in the wind. 

 

 

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The castle had obviously been left abandoned for some time. Years, perhaps, since a soul last resided within the tall walls. _Stannis Baratheon_ was a foul word on her tongue, and yet she felt a strange feeling of curiosity wash through her as she stared at the strange banners. _He’s dead now_ , she thought to herself. His House as well. _No more stags are left to graze the fields_. . . 

It made her sad, in an odd way. House Targaryen was almost lost too, more than once. The dragons had always endured, even if it was barely.

“Is it as your remembered?” Aegon asked, coming to stand beside her as they marched through the halls. Rhaenys looked around, at the strange banners that had replaced their family’s for almost two decades now. Banners that very being torn down by their men. She watched them fall with satisfaction singing in her heart. 

“Darker,” she whispered. _Or were they? Perhaps they were equally as dark as they are now, but how could a little girl tell the difference_? Back then, darkness had been the only thing she had ever feared. Now, there were far too many things she could not even come to think of a list. 

He smiled, casting his gaze downright. “We’re finally home.”

”Not yet,” she said, although she herself did not recognise her own voice. It sounded hollow.  When she met Aegon’s eyes there was confusion in them. She said no more. He could repeat to her that sentence when they would be standing before the Iron Throne, with Daenerys atop of it. 

But she couldn’t help but think what it would be like to have Aegon sitting upon it, how pretty he would look. So alike their father he was, the same face and silvery tresses. The throne had always been meant for him. He was Rhaegar’s son after all, and as much of a dragon as Daenerys although half a Martell. He was the heir their father had named him. The Prince that was Promised, their foolish father had cursed him to be. By rights he was heir, and therefore king.

 _By Dornish customs I should be heir_. . . Rhaenys thought. She wanted to laugh. A thousand men would rather die than see her sitting upon the damned throne. _A throne made of steel. A thousand swords. But it is forged by blood_. . .

Children’s bodies had been placed before it, wrapped in crimson cloaks. But their faces were not of the Targaryen’s babes. . .

She watched as Daenerys herself tore down an old, withered banner. The heart and stag crumbled to the floor, and the queen’s men stepped upon it without a second glance. 

Here we stand still, she thought. Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken. 

 _Yet_. . .

Suddenly, she stopped, as something small caught her attention. Aegon halted, noticing his sister’s absence, but the queen and her men continued on marching, oblivious. Their footsteps rung through the murk halls, echoed in the distance, until there was no more. 

Laying abandoned on the floor was a doll. It was small, worn, and the arm had visibly been stitched back together numerous of times. But it was a doll all the same, perhaps meant for a little girl, and Rhaenys found herself at loss for words. She had never got to play with dolls. . .

”Rhaenys?”

She looked up at her brother, but it wasn’t him standing before her but her father. The Halls suddenly appeared sunlit and bright, and she realised that she was not in a fortress upon a forsaken island but in King’s Landing. The doll in the distance had turned into a little black kitten. 

Wordlessly, she stood still, afraid that if she would move the vision would crumble like dust; and be blown away with the wind. 

He smiled, but there was still sorrow in his eyes. Nothing could ever banish it away. She had learned that quickly. “What are you doing her, sweetling?” He asked. 

 _I was looking for you_. 

He raised his hand, held it out to her as if he was waiting for her to run towards him and take it. She wanted to. She wanted to leap into his arms and melt into them. To bury her face in his chest and wrap her arms around his neck. To _never_ let go. But she could not move, and she would be a fool to think it was a real.

“Rhaenys?” His lips moved, but it was not his voice. She closed her eyes, only for a second, but when she opened them again the sunlight was gone and her father with it. Aegon stood in his place, a worried look on his face. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head. “Yes.” Lies. Can he see through them? “I was just. . . thinking.”

 _Thinking_ is what she did too much these days. That’s all that she _could_ do. She would lay awake every night, overwrought, unable to sleep. 

He walked towards her and gently took her hand. “Come,” he said softly, placing an arm around her shoulder. “We don’t want to have our queen worry about where we are.” She turned her head so that they faced each other, only inches apart, feeling his breath on her lips. 

 _Aegon_ , she thought. _So alike and yet so different from our father_. . . For years she had tried to find something, _anything_ , in him that reminded her of their mother. She had convinced herself long ago that Elia had left nothing of herself in her only boy. But now, as she looked at him, she found something. 

“Your eyes,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the curve of his cheekbones towards his lips. They were not sad but soft. _Gentle_. Although they were purple, not their father’s deep shade but lighter, they were upturned. Rhaegar’s had been deep-set. “Your lips.” She continued, dazed, her fingers hovering over his skin like the touch of a ghost. They were fuller but not feminine, with a perfect cupid’s bow. 

 _I wonder_. . . she thought to herself. Ever since she was little, she had always believed herself to be promised to Viserys. It had seemed so obvious. He had only been four years her senior, and for almost six years she had been the only living Targaryen princess available to wed. Rhaenys had never thought of Aegon as a supposed betrothed–

It was a nice thought. Aegon was sweet; he was beautiful – perhaps more than Rhaegar had ever been. Daenerys was very fond of him, so much that she feared to ever lose him. Rhaenys was sure that if anything ever would happen to Aegon, it would turn the queen blind with madness. That spoke volumes.

What would it be like to have Aegon for herself? Aegon and Rhaenys. . . It didn’t sound so bad. It sounded quite good, actually. Targaryens often wed siblings – was that better or worse than nephew and aunt?

“Rhaenys?”

She was pulled back to reality, and realised that she had been staring at his lips for a second too long for her to be able to play it off. He had noticed this as well, and was looking at her with a concerned expression.

”You look like her,” she said, perhaps the first person ever to tell him so. She didn’t have to clarify who ‘ _her’_ was. Elia was a person she did not like to speak of often, perhaps because much to her shame she did not remember much about her. Only a warm laughter and bed-time stories. A soft bosom and a light, fair scent.

Rhaenys raised her eyes to meet his, mauve aligning with indigo. A long moment of silence passed between them, one that was tense and strange, where they simply stared into each other’s eyes. She had the queer urge to kiss him, to find out what those perfect lips felt like against hers, and to melt into his embrace. She didn’t.

Eventually, she pulled away from the warmth of the body pressed against hers, although she would rather not. _Aegon loves Daenerys_ , she thought to herself, biting down the frustration and familiar feeling of jealousy. No, not jealousy. Envy. _He has always been meant for her, as I was once meant for Viserys_. . .

But Viserys is gone. _To whom do I belong to then_?

“Come,” Rhaenys cleared the silence. “Our queen awaits.”

It took him a moment, but eventually Aegon wordlessly followed her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Rhaenys :( This is a short chapter, I know. I’m not really satisfied with the second half of the chapter, but I honestly don’t have the strength to try and fix it (i’m tired). 
> 
> But, hey, they’re finally home ( sort of )!!
> 
> Next chapter will finally be Jon! No worries, I haven’t forgotten about him! Some time has already passed since we last got his perspective, so quite a few things have already happened. Stay tuned!
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos and comments!


	10. They Can Hang

Bear Island was a cold and poor island located far in the North in the Bay of Ice, where even the seas would sometimes freeze during the harshest of winters. The lands of the Mormonts would prove fruitless for harvest, and most of their region was littered by frost. If not for their tall trees, their lands would be nothing but a wasteland of snow; even during the most blessed of summers. When Jon stepped up onto the docks of the harbour, relieved that the days of sea were over, he was greeted by a crisp smell of winter air and pine.

The people were not much different from their home, cold and strong, and their women were more manlier than those of the mainland. They would cast Jon odd stares as he’d walk past them, none of them saying a word, and he could feel their eyes digging into his back; as if they were threatening to eat him raw. But, in spite of those things, the wooden houses looked homely, and when they entered the halls of House Mormont they were greeted with nothing but the warmth of a distant fire. 

For a moment, Jon felt as though he stood in Winterfell. He had not seen female servants stroll through halls in what felt like ages; and stared at the small servant children that would run around with large bowls or sheets. It felt odd. In the Night’s Watch, everyone had to do everything for themselves. 

Alysane Mormont was a large lady. Not fat, but muscular, with a womanly build. Her eyes were intimidating, and her voice was strong when she addressed them. It rung coldly through the halls, like crisp wood crackling in fire, and Jon noted that she had a sword sheathed on her belt. He was suddenly very aware of Longclaw that was upon his own, and had to restrain himself from grabbing the hilt of it. 

 _What is the matter with me_? He thought to himself. _Here I am, thinking about drawing their own ancestral sword against them_.  _These days, I worry that everyone wants me dead_. . . But House Mormont, unlike the Boltons, were not their enemies. He had to remember that.

She was not alone, for a much younger girl sat by her side, along with a few councillors and a single maester. He had a good enough guess who the little lady was. However, the number of people in the room made Jon uneasy, but he was _desperate_. The Mormonts were not a large house, definitely not a rich one, but they were Northerners still; and they had sworn to the Starks. Even if it was a long time ago.

“Lady Mormont,” Jon greeted, bowing his head.

But unlike her appearance, Alysane’s words were not rude: “Welcome to Bear Island.” That was all she said. When silence settled she continued, waving a hand towards the little girl beside her, whose eyes, if possible, were even colder than her sister’s. “My sister, Lyanna.” She was prettier, but looked colder, with dark eyes that were impossible to read.

Jon, not knowing what to do, bowed his head again. Back in Winterfell, he had never been permitted to speak with the high lords or ladies, and therefore was unsure of what to do in their presence. What else _was_ there to do? You bow your head, mutter your courtesies, and watch your tongue. Wasn’t that it?

Thankfully, Sansa was there to aid him:

”My lady, you were named after our aunt, Lyanna.” She started, smiling sweetly. “It was said she was a great beauty, I’m sure you will be too.”

”I doubt it,” Lyanna said, startling both of them. “Our mother wasn’t a great beauty or any kind of beauty. She was a great warrior, though. She died fighting for your brother Robb.” There was a bitterness in her voice, indicating that she was still fresh in her sorrows. It made Jon uneasy and even more restless than before. It was as he feared. The Starks had left their scars, and perhaps the Northern houses that had sworn to theirs would never forgive them. 

 _But we have to try_. . .

“I served under your uncle at Castle Black, Lady Lyanna,” he decided with, not sure what else to say. “He was a great and honourable man. He spoke highly of your House, and of you as well. I was his steward—“

”I think we’ve had enough small-talk,” Lyanna cut him off, glaring daggers into his soul. “Why are you here?”

Jon, feeling defeated and utterly hopeless, decided to settle with the truth. “We need your help.”

Silence dawned over them. For a moment, they simply stood there, beneath the Mormonts’ cold and watchful gazes. When neither of the sisters decided to speak, Jon hesitantly continued, shifting where he stood. “Stannis Baratheon came to Castle Black a few years ago. He wanted to recruit men for his army. He showed me the letter your wrote to him. . . it said—“

”I know what it said,” Lyanna declared hotly, her voice was sharp like daggers. It cut through the air like Valyrian steel. “ _Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark_.”

Jon was glad to hear so. “Robb is gone,” the words hurt, but he said them anyways. “But House Stark is not, and it needs your support more than ever. I’ve come with my sister to ask for House Mormont’s allegiance.”

He didn’t need to clarify what kind of help he was asking for. He would be a fool to not think that Ramsay must have already written a letter to them. The two ladies could easily keep them captive, and wait for the lord of Winterfell to come and deal with them. Jon hope Reggie not.

The silence that settled was tense. How old was the girl anyways? She looked no older than twelve, and yet spoke and sat as if she was many years his senior. The way she looked at them, evenly, made it seem as if she had seen and commanded hundreds of wars before; but she couldn’t have been any older than Bran. . .

Lyanna turned to meet her sister’s gaze, and it seemed as if she and Alysane were having a silent conversation with each other's eyes. The dread in Jon’s stomach lurched, slithering and coiling around his organs until it felt like his insides were being squeezed. He had the sudden urge to throw up, or perhaps melt into a pool of water and disappear. One of the councillors leaned over to whisper something to them, something that made their eyes widen. Anxiousness whispered in Jon’s mind as he waited for them to make a decision.

Finally, they turned towards him at the same time, and Alysane appeared smug when she spoke: 

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re a Snow, and lady Sansa is a Bolton.”

”Or is she a Lannister?” Lyanna asked, raising a brow. “We’ve heard conflicting reports.”

Jon Snow couldn’t argue against either of those things. House Stark was in their blood, not their names, but he had hoped it would be enough. He felt half a fool now, thinking about it. Five years ago, Jon had been a bastard and he was a bastard still. Nothing would change that, no titles or blood.

”I did what I had to do to survive, my lady.” Sansa said, as sad as she sounded strong. “But I am a Stark, I’ll always be a Stark.”

 _Five years ago Sansa would have handed over her freedom to be anything else_ but _a Stark_ , Jon thought to himself. _But the woman next to me is not the girl I last saw in Winterfell_. . . 

“If you say so.” Lyanna said, almost tiredly. “In any case, you don’t just want our allegiance you want our fighting men.”

Suddenly, Jon felt very _angry_. Fury swept over him like a wind, and when he spoke he did so unthinking:

”Ramsay Bolton _cannot_ be allowed to keep Winterfell, my ladies. It is our duty to stop him.” 

But his anger was not directed at the ladies of Bear Island, no. He had received a letter a few days ago, one with the sigil of a flayed man. Jon remembered the soldier he had let live and escape in the woods when the others had died. The man must’ve informed his lord of the dire wolf who saved the lady Sansa. Now, the new lord Bolton knew about them, and he had threatened them in more ways than one. There had been a choice before, but now they could do nothing but try and reclaim Winterfell. Either that or a painful, slow death. It was the only way, even though he wished it wasn’t so.

“He murdered his own father, Roose Bolton, and his baby half-brother. Domeric Bolton refuses to negotiate with us to try and usurp Ramsay, because he _fears_ him. If you only wish to follow those whose name is Stark, then it is best to tell you that he holds our brother Rickon Stark as his prisoner, who is the true heir to Winterfell.” He hesitated, feeling sadness wash over him, silencing the anger.

 _Rickon_ , who had been nothing but a baby when he left. He didn’t want to believe it. He had tried to convince himself that Ramsay was lying, but when he saw the fear in Sansa’s sad blue eyes, he knew better than to question it. “What you have to understand, my lady—“

”I understand that I am responsible for Bear Island and all that live here,” Alysane said hotly. “So why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life for someone else’s war?”

Things were not going smoothly, but Jon hadn’t expected things to go easy anyways. Everything, from the threat in the far North to the bastard who now sat at Winterfell’s seat, even all the way to the South where now the Lannister’s ruled; was a complete and utter mess. One war won would always lead to at least three more, and Jon was tired of wars. He was tired of _fighting_. He was—

He was tired. 

Ser Davos, who had been looming in the back the entire time, stepped up to their aid. “If it please my lady, I understand how you feel.”

Lyanna frowned. “I don’t  know you, Ser. . .”

”Davos, my lady,” he finished for her. “Of House Seaworth. You need not ask your maester about my house, it’s rather new. . .”

Lyanna shifted in her seat, curiosity finally replacing the steel coldness in her eyes. “Alright Ser Davos of House Seaworth. How is it you understand how we feel?”

“You never thought you’d find yourself in your position. I never thought I’d be in _my_ position. I was a crabber’s son, then I was a smuggler, and now I find myself addressing the ladies of a great house at a time of war. But I’m here because this isn’t someone else’s war.” He paused for a moment, making sure his words were settling in their minds before finishing the sentence, “It’s _our_ war.”

Finally, it looked as if the two ladies looked interested. “Go on Ser Davos.” Alysane permitted him, leaning forward.

“Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made _that_ man his steward.” He addressed Jon, who shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew Jon had the courage to do what was right. Even if it meant giving his life. Because Jeor Mormont And Jon Snow both understood that the _real_ war isn’t between a few squabbling houses. It‘s between the _living_ and the _dead_.” He drew in a deep breath, as if he truly did not wish to say what came next:

”And make no mistake, my ladies. The dead are coming.”

Lyanna looked at Jon, and to his surprise, she didn’t look shocked. She didn’t even appear slightly frightened. Looking into her black eyes, he saw, well, _nothing_. Nothing but cold determination. “Is this true?” 

“Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. . .” Jon hesitated. “We both lost.”

 _Yes, we lost then. Will we lose again_?

”As long as the Boltons hold Winterfell, the North is divided,” Ser Davos explained. “And a divided North won’t stand a chance against the Others and their army of dead.” The knight stepped forward. “You want to protect your people, my ladies, I understand. But there’s no hiding from this. We have to fight, and we need to do it together. . .”

The two sisters shared another silent look. A councillor leaned over to whisper something to them, but Alysane silenced him by raising a single hand. For a moment, Jon could feel nothing but fear. What would happen if they’d decline? If they’d refuse to aid them? Would Jon have to return back to Westeros and wait for the Boltons to come and kill him? Ramsay would butcher every wildling in his way, whether they’d be old, women or children. It was Jon’s duty to protect them– but what would happen if you couldn’t—

Then, the sisters turned to them again and Alysane inhaled sharply, as if she was arguing with herself. But what came next sounded like music to Jon’s ears: “House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years. . . We will not break faith today.”

 

 

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“Mormont, Mazin and Hornwood. Three Houses have already pledged to fight with us,” Jon said, to no one but himself really, as he paced around the room. Sansa was sat in the distance, her eyes fixed on the hand-scribbled map that was spread over a table before them. “With the Free-Folk, we barely surpass  half a thousand more than our original number. . .”

”We don’t stand a chance,” Sansa said, startling him. He saw nothing in her blue eyes when they met his. “House Karstark And Umber have already pledged to fight with Ramsay. He’s gathered about a thousand men from them.”

Jon stared at her for a moment with a silent look. “You read my letters.”

”I have the rights to know what’s happening,” she said, turning her gaze back towards the map. “And I’m here to tell you that we don’t stand a chance. We don’t have the numbers and we don’t have Winterfell as a fort to protect us.”

”We have to try—“

”You’ll get everyone killed—“

”What would you have us do!?” Jon hollered, unable to control himself. He knew they were hopeless, that they would certainly lose, but what else was there to do? However, when he noticed the fear and sadness wash over his sister’s face after he raised his voice, he regretted it immediately. Sansa, just like him, was scared. She didn’t want to lose and he couldn’t blame her for it. 

Walking towards her, he took her hand into his own; squeezing it gently as a form of apology. “What would you have us do?” He repeated, softly this time, hoping he could draw an answer from her. Perhaps she had an idea that would prove useful. She had survived a lot, and learning often came with surviving. 

“Try and negotiate,” she said, and for a moment he didn’t understand what she meant. As she continued, the pieces began to form together into an image. “We can’t win this war by fighting them, so we have to try something else.” When she looked into his eyes, there was determination in them. “They have Rickon. We _know_ this. We have to try and get him back, _alive_. He’s our brother, he’s a Stark, the North are loyal to the Starks.”

Jon drew a seat and sat down opposite her. He thought for a moment. “You wish to inspire the people.”

”If the people know House Stark still lives we may yet win back their loyalties and gather more men,” she explained. “Other Northern families will pledge themselves to us, to help us fight. It’s a better route to take than to march for war, because if we do it this way there’s at least the slightest chance we may win.” She took his hand, hastily, and drew it to her chest.

Looking at her, he felt strange. Five years ago, he would never in a thousand years ever think that his sister, Sansa Stark, would help him with strategies for war. That she would offer him councils and come up with good ideas that might lead them to victory. _Sansa Stark, what has the South done to you? What did the lions do_?

”So we try and negotiate peace with them,” Jon said. “To have them return Rickon to us, _unharmed_ , and then let them keep Winterfell.”

She shook her head. “No.” She didn’t sound like Sansa when she spoke but a stranger. “We have them return Rickon to us, _unharmed_ , and let the North see that we are the true heirs to Winterfell. Then we’ll take it back because it is our home.”

Home was a foreign word to him now, one that sounded strange on his tongue.

“They remember us, they _remember_ father. . .” She raised a hand, and brushed it against his face. “You look exactly like him. When they see you, they’ll realise that he still lives in us. A bastard or not you have his blood,” she paused, smiling. “And you’re our brother.”

Five years ago, Jon would have done anything to be able to hear that. Now, he felt more sad than happy. 

He bowed his head and leaned against her touch. With his eyes closed, he could almost fall asleep, and pretend that the troubles in the world were nonexistent. She did not pull her hand away, even as he let the weight of his head fall. “The Northern houses may not like that. . .”

”They will,” she said, and she sounded so determined that Jon for a moment believed her. “All they have to do is _see_ you. They’ll look at you and see father, and realise that they’d rather have the bastard of Eddard Stark lead them than the bastard of Roose Bolton.” 

“And what of those who have betrayed us?” Jon asked her. “What happens to the Umbers and Karstarks?” 

Ice settled in Sansa’s gaze. “They can hang.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JON is finally back! Lyanna Mormont, the queen of everyone’s life, makes a cameo and the Battle of the Bastards draws ever near. . .
> 
> (also) Domeric is alive. A minor alteration from the canon-source, but I suppose it might make a big change.  
> Thank you for the kudos and comments<3


	11. Unbent, Unbowed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ The beginning of the chapter is from the perspective of Arianne Martell, the second half of the chapter is Aegon’s ]

Compared to Dorne, Dragonstone was as different as the sun and moon. The contrast between the strange little land and home was like day and night; or fire and ice. The earth, although mostly deep green, was high and hard; with not a sight of familiar golden sand. The island was surrounded by ruthless tides that would crash upon rocky cliffs, so harshly that Arianne feared their ship would topple over before they’d even reach the shores. It wasn’t a place one could imagine growing up in, especially when the massive fortress came to view. 

Saying it was terrifying would be a mild term. The gargoyles could surely inspire nightmares, and the dark stones used in the construct of the massive building and high towers only made the gloomy atmosphere more prominent in the air. It was a castle built from loss and sadness; grief rung from it like an old tune. She could hear the sorrow, whispering in the air, trying to mend together open wounds of a long, forgotten time. Wounds that, no matter how sweet the tunes, would never seal shut. The stone eyes had seen much throughout the centuries they had sat there. 

If the rattling sea wasn’t enough to stir up something vile in her stomach, the sudden roar that echoed through the grey sky almost had her come undone. A few men hollered as they pointed to the heavens, and when Arianne raised her gaze she was amazed at the sight. A dragon, larger than any beast she had seen before, was flying over them; with shining scales of green and bronze. She marvelled at the sight, and stood breathless with her mouth agape like a fool in court. 

No one could dare judge her. How many men had ever stood beneath a dragon’s gaze? 

She wondered what _they_ looked like to the winged thing, so high in the sky. Whether they were a tiny dot, almost impossible to glimpse, or whether they were a target, one the creature could easily pinpoint and aim at. It didn’t matter, because just as the the dragon had abruptly appeared it left, flapping its wide wings and disappearing behind a cliff; as if it had never flown above them in the first place. Apparently, they weren’t worth its time. Of course the thing wouldn’t care, it wasn’t under a threat.

Who could ever harm a beast that size? 

The Dornish once did. 

Arianne could barely feel the cold winds anymore. Ever since they begun their travels from Dorne, she had felt out of place. Without the sight of familiar golden sand, she felt weary. 

Too lost in her own thoughts, the strange fantasies that stirred in her mind at the thought of being atop of the best; with her arms around a armoured chest, she failed to notice the person that came to stand beside her. 

“The first time I saw them, I didn’t want to believe my eyes.” Jon Connington said, smiling at the large cliff the dragon had disappeared behind. What was it doing? Feasting upon human flesh? She turned to him. The man looked older than his age should have allowed. There were faint wrinkles on his face, and more silver in his hair than red. 

“It must’ve felt like a dream,” Arianne commented, leaning against the railing. The ship had come to a somewhat stop, and she knew that soon enough they’d lower the boats that would bring them to the cold, forsaken island.

 _Not forsaken anymore_. . .

”Yes,” Jon said. She had a strange feeling that he wanted to say more, but refrained himself from doing so. Curiosity was gnawing at her, but she didn’t have the time to ask him because of the hand that came to grab her shoulder, followed by her father’s voice: 

“The Princess Rhaenys was born on this island,” Doran Martell said, as if he was gazing into a memory, one that was both sweet and sad. “It was a sunny day. Perhaps the sunniest day this cursed place has ever seen. . .”

A strange feeling settled over Arienne. She had been told much about Rhaenys when she was little, from both her father and uncle Oberyn. They always spoke of a bright child, one who was filled with laughter and had mesmerising purple eyes. After the Sack of King’s Landing, whenever her father or uncle would speak of her, they’d do so with sadness in their eyes. Even though someone had died in her place, she had been lost to them still. 

“ _The Little princess was one of the few people in the world who could make the prince Rhaegar smile, for her laughter was a joyous sound,” Oberyn had told her, one night when Arienne had asked of her cousins. “But when the prince died, and her mother’s blood was spilt on the marble floor, the Red Keep has never heard such sound since, and laughter is forever stilled in the halls_. . .” Her uncle had sounded more angry than sad when he had spoken, but she never blamed him for him. The Dornish men’s blood still boiled at the memory of Elia Martell. 

Arianne feared only bloodshed would be able settle the fury in their hearts. 

A young man helped her onto the one of the small boats, and she flashed him a sweet smile when her father was not looking. He visibly flushed beneath her eyes, and she had to swallow down the urge to laugh. 

The tides were rougher when you had men rowing to battle against them. No matter what she did, she couldn’t shrug off the constant fear of the boat flipping over, and that she would perish beneath the cold waves. A part of her wished she had never agreed to leave Dorne, but she knew there was no choice. 

She _had_ to see _them_. 

These cousins her uncle and father had always spoken of so highly. The children of the sweet Elia Martell; children Arianne could not remember but borne from an aunt whom she could recall. Arianne remembered kind laughter and nimble hands that were soft in her hair. She had been fond of her aunt, and the thought of the sweet woman in her memory lying in a pool of her own blood made her sad. 

A part of her was joyous of the thought of revenge, but her mind strayed to her uncle Oberyn and she became hesitant again. Was revenge truly something she wanted? 

Foreign men greeted them by the shores. They were not Andals, nor Rhoynar, and definitely not of the blood of the First Men. No, they had unfamiliar faces and wore even more unfamiliar attire. Each face was as hard as stone, devoid of any emotions. It was as if each man had forged himself a mask; an intimidating one that inspired fear. 

Arianne decided, as she admired each man for herself, that she liked that. 

One of them, who was dressed differently from the others, and who wore a helm that covered most of his face save his eyes, bowed lowly; tapping his spear into the earth. He said no word but swiftly turned around and marched away, and the rest of the party obediently trailed after him. Arianne supposed no words needed to exchanged. Their arrival must have been expected. They _were_ rather late. . .

Truthfully, Dorne had been hesitant to answer to the Targaryen’s aid. They had tried to have Myrcella seated on the Iron Throne, but the plan had gone to waste. Everything seemed fruitless at this point, and they were sick of war and bloodshed. 

But this was _different._ Dorne had lost a lot, more than it had ever gained, the last decade or two. Her father had lost a brother, an uncle and a sister. All respect they had for the Lannisters was lost, along with any other noble family that had battled against theirs in the Rebellion. Yes, the Dornish were bitter, and they had every rights to be. No house in Westeros, no matter their power, could deny them that

But then Connington had spoken of a prince and a princess standing proudly beside their dragon queen. A prince and a princess that had dragons claimed as their own. That Elia’s children, once lost in the world, had returned from the ashes they had been buried in. Dorne vowed, that no matter what, they would _not_ lose them. Not again. 

That is why they were here. 

The fates of Rhaegar’s children had always been somewhat mysterious. They had been swapped, yes, but before the Sack of King’s Landing. Days perhaps, if not weeks. _How_ no one had noticed this baffled Arianne. Surely, there were servants who could recognise the children? Why had Elia not gone with them? Where did they go?

No one truly knew. They vanished, that is for certain, and maybe they did die. The children that had been placed before the Iron Throne wrapped in crimson cloaks had not been them, but who is to say that had survived? The Dornish had hoped, but years passed to no avail. Oberyn lost faith, and they were eventually declared dead. Wherever they had fled to in the world, starvation had probably consumed them, if not something worse. 

Arianne wished her uncle was still alive. Knowing that Elia’s children still lived would have brought him satisfaction, and perhaps some peace. He had never found full rest ever since his sister’s death.

The steps that led to the castle were long, and by the time they reached the entrance her legs ached. Ellaria was judging the architecture beneath her eyes, but she said no word, even as Arianne tossed in a light comment. Oberyn’s death had taken a toll on her as well. . .  

The Halls were mostly dark. No lanterns or candles were lit from within, and whatever daylight that would manage to stream through the windows was ghostly. They were also cold, and although Arianne had picked out her most ‘closed’ outfit for the occasion, knowing the weathers would not be as pleasing as they were in Dorne, she had not been prepared for such chill, even from inside. 

She could picture herself Trystane, bathing in the sun next to a fresh, cool pool, and felt envious. The things she would do to be in his place–

No. _She_ was her father’s heir. She had to be here with him. 

Arianne turned to the man with the helmet, assuming he could speak and understand the common tongue since he had been requested to guide them, asked: “What is the queen like?”

”Arianne,” her father said, warningly. But the man’s dark eyes darted at her from beneath the helm, and although his voice was slightly muffled she could hear him well: 

“She is the queen we chose. The queen we follow. The queen we serve.” He paused, as if he was translating each word in his head before saying them aloud. “She is the one who freed us. Our lives we owe.” 

So they say. Rumours and whispers of s dragon queen beyond the Narrow Sea had reached to Westeros long ago, but men were hesitant to believe them. They say that the dragon queen wore her mantle proudly, and that her name was not a burden she had to carry but one that she held with pride. Arienne wondered how much truly she knew about her father, and the dark legacy he left behind for their house. Rhaegar Targaryen had almost fixed it, but he had died before he could. 

Her mind suddenly darted back to her cousins, more specifically the younger one.

 _What’s the prince like_? She wanted to ask, but refrained herself from doing so. Oberyn had told her Aegon had looked like a Targaryen, and the Targaryens were said to have been beautiful. Valyrian features, a remnant of a race of people lost to the world. If Viserys had lived, she was set to have married him in an arrangement. Her uncle had told her this, but only after the poor prince had died. 

 _But Aegon is my cousin_ , she thought to herself, frowning slightly. _I cannot possibly think of ever wedding him_. . . 

But as they entered the council room, and a set of shimmering purple eyes met hers, she decided: _damn it_. 

To say that Aegon was attractive would be misleading. He was _beautiful_. He looked as if he had been carefully sculpted by the Maiden herself; like an essence of whatever god of beauty existed in the world. If she would have to imagine herself the dragon riders of old, he stood before her now. 

His hair was fair, with streaks of gold and white intertwining with the pure silver, and he wore it in a braid behind his back. His clothes were fine, light, with the sigil of his House embroidered on the chest. What struck her the most were his eyes, haunting and bright, a lovely shade that she could only dream of keeping. Like his sister, his skin was a deeper shade than the average Westerosi’s, but lighter than Arienne’s. It was a tan nonetheless, and a breathless contrast to that of his pale hair and eyes. He looked—

Exotic. Like a sweet delicacy. 

Rhaenys was a beauty herself, with sweet but sad indigo eyes that almost appeared black in the low light. Her hair was dark, and it hung down her back in a single braid. She was tall, a trait the young woman had certainly not earned from her mother, and had her father’s proud face, much to Arianne’s surprise. Rhaenys, who had been disliked by her grandfather for her ‘Dornish’ appearance, looked the most like the late prince Rhaegar.

But it would be wrong to try and deny their mother’s blood in them. Both siblings had what Arianne liked to call ‘Dornish lips’; full, and almost enticingly kissable. 

They were beautiful, and dangerously so. Arianne had certain powers of her own, powers she could activate with just a look of her eyes. She wondered what they could do. Maidens would swoon at the sight of Aegon’s silver hair and bright eyes; and men would certainly be enticed by Rhaenys’ sad gaze; shimmering purple.

Both of them stood up hastily at their entrance. 

Their queen, who was a breathless beauty as well, smiled. “Welcome to Dragonstone prince Doran and princess Arianne. I hope your trip was pleasant.”

Her father bowed his head in respect. “The weather is not as sweet as it is in Dorne, but the sailing was smooth. I thank you for your concerns, your Grace. . .”

Arianne could barely address the queen Daenerys. She was too focused on her cousins, who were both staring at her in return. _Never in a thousand years did I ever think this day would come_ , she thought to herself. _When the Targaryens at last return to retake their cursed throne_. . . 

 _Cursed_ , she liked to call it, because it was so. Many men had died trying to sit atop of it, and Arianne wondered if Elia’s children were any different. Whether they were just the next names on the infinite list, and that their blood would join those that painted the throne red. 

She hoped not, but when had the world ever cared for her hope? 

 

 

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 _The Dornish are proud people_ , Jon had often told Aegon. _They stand now still, even as other ancient families wither away. The Martell words are: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. And believe me, my prince, their words stand true_. 

 _Anything can be broken_ , Aegon had thought to himself. There was irony to their words. He thought of his mother, lying in a pool of her own blood, and of the uncle he had never met; whose skull had been cruelly crushed. 

A strange feeling washed over him when the prince and princess entered the room. Joy, longing, sorrow. . . Looking at the middle-aged man and his daughter, Aegon felt a surge of relief wash over him. In a different world, they would perhaps have been a happy family. Maybe Aegon and Rhaenys would have often visited Dorne, their mother’s family, and acted in mischief with their same aged cousins. Maybe they would have been close as siblings. But looking at Arienne, Aegon could say they were nothing but strangers. The princess would surely agree with that. 

 _But we’re kinsmen still_. . . Daenerys had no family to go to, no one but Aegon and Rhaenys. But _they_ had the Martells. Dorne, in spite of everything, was still loyal. He wanted to be accepted by them. To show them that he was not simply the son of the Silver Prince, but that Elia lived in him as well. By helping them, Dorne would in a way be restoring her honour as well. 

Was that not what Dorne craved to do?

Rhaenys was looking at their uncle with an odd look on her face. Did she remember him? She had spoken of Oberyn, but not so often of Doran, and Aegon couldn’t help but wonder if she had even met the man before. Did _he_ remember her? Aegon felt foolish. How would one forget? He worried for a moment that the prince of Dorne would take one look at them and turn away, that he did not see what he had hoped to see in them; and that there was not enough of their mother in their faces to seal the allegiance.

But then his shoulders slacked, as if the weariness that had held him all together suddenly disappeared, and smiled. A moment of breathless silence passed before Rhaenys at last sprinted from across the room and flung into his arms, clinging on tightly as if she feared he would go. The silence that settled in the room was almost awkward, but no one dared point it out. 

Aegon turned his gaze away from them, and met the soft brown eyes of Arianne Martell. She was short, her figure was womanly, and he would be lying if he’d say she wasn’t beautiful. _A perfect Dornish beauty_ , one could even imply, and many men’s greatest weakness. He wondered what those eyes had seen, what they could do. To his surprise, she smiled at him, and he found himself consciously smiling back. 

Then, he noticed Jon, a silent silhouette standing in the shadows behind her; and he lost his breath altogether. Connington looked older to Aegon, if possible, even though only a few months had passed since he had last seen the man. His hair was more grey than it was red, and he had prominent crow’s feet on his scarred face. It was Jon, though, and no amount of scars or wrinkles could make him unrecognisable to Aegon.

He wanted to leap into his arms, just as Rhaenys had done to their uncle, but he knew the old man would scold him for it. Jon had tried to forge him into a proper prince, ever since he was young, and princes don’t hug or embrace those they deeply care for. Not in _public_.They don’t let their joy overcome them.

 _Joy never lasts_ , Jon had told him once. _There’s no use clinging onto it_. 

 _Nothing ever lasts_ , Aegon thought to himself. His family’s reign hadn’t–

And neither would the Lannister’s. 

“We’re grateful that Dorne has decided to help us,” he didn’t even realise he was the one who had spoken out loud , not until silence settled and all eyes were upon him. Meeting his uncle’s gaze, he smiled: “Your loyalty will certainly be honoured and repaid when we retake the Seven Kingdoms.”

Arianne took a daring step forward, and Aegon judged her bold for it. “And how will you presume to do that, exactly?” 

His smile turned from kind to smug. “Reasonably,” then it turned wicked. “And if the other lords of Westeros prove to be difficult, then as we do usually:

“With Fire and Blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, long ( kind of ) time no see. 
> 
> I like to think that the majority of Dornish people are very seductive, and that Aegon and Rhaenys inherited it from their mother. Thank you for all the kudos<3


	12. White Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon can’t help thinking about the stranger in his dreams.

North. 

Where else was there left to go? They already had half the West secured with Asha and Theon Greyjoy’s fealty, and the South with Dorne. In the East were the Storm- and Crownlands, and Aegon doubted that the Arryns would bother intertwining themselves into war that would affect them in no way possible. Paranoia had swallowed the family whole years ago, and all that was left of a once great house was a meek, frightened boy that maesters and tutors were trying to shape into a somewhat stable man.

The North was the only region left that had yet to swear to them, and he doubted they would win any Northern alliances by writing letters to their lords and ladies. Aegon _had_ to go North, it was the only way. It didn’t matter how dangerous or rash the decision clearly was, it was a decision that had to be made. A decision that had already been made, in Aegon’s mind. It would take less than two days for him to go there on flight; a week on ahorse and a fortnight on feet. 

But he had to go _alone_. Marching with an army would cause attention, and surely a misunderstanding. Going alone, defenceless, would be an obvious peaceful approach. That way, he could try and speak with the lord Ramsay before men would foolishly try and fire arrows at him or take him prisoner. He prayed and hoped that the warden of the North was an honourable man, and that he would consider Aegon’s offer wisely.

Rhaenys had argued with him for a whole evening, and she was still in disagreement with his decision of departing alone. _Let me go with you_ , she had tried to plead with him. _Don’t go alone_ , she had begged. All the Seven gods ( if they were even real ) knew better than to argue with him. Her words fell onto half-deaf ears. His mind was set. He was going North. 

The thought of it didn’t scare him. Actually, come think of it, he wasn’t even slightly nervous. His uncle had advised him to stay and have the North swear to Daenerys _after_ they would take King’s Landing, but Aegon had argued back that there wasn’t time. If they would take the Crownlands first, there was still the North to be dealt with, but if they would take the North first, they would have more men to help sack the city; and less weary, battle-wounded soldiers. 

So he had told the council he was flying North. Olenna Tyrell had looked at him with an unreadable expression and hooded, unimpressed eyes. But when she had spoken there had been slight amusement in her aged voice: 

“Fond of noble deeds, are you? I’ll tell you now that reality is far from the simplicity written down on the papers that maesters like to keep in their big libraries. It’s much more gruesome. War is a nasty thing, young boy. Young, I call you because you are young. Boy I call you because you’re more of a boy than a man. Surely, you don’t think you’ll win the North by asking nicely?”

”I’ll win the North with a dragon,” Aegon had answered, surprisingly unfazed by her light insults. The woman had wisdom. He could respect that. 

“Oh, yes. The _dragons_.” The old woman mused. “Great beasts that fly over our heads right now as we speak. Beasts that come from legend, once extinct now reborn again.” The lady had smiled, her pale blue eyes twinkling, and turned to Daenerys. “How do you mean to take the capital?”

”With an army.” Their queen had replied, clasping her hands together. “Westeros won’t stand a chance against the Unsullied, the Dothraki, the Second Sons, Dorne, the Iron Islands and the Reach.” She met Aegon’s gaze. “If things go as planned, the North as well.”

”They might actually,” Arianne Martell spoke, her voice clear but soft. She was dressed well, bathed in golden jewellery that complimented her deep skin. “The Lannisters still have the people’s support. As far as we’re concerned, they have the Vale, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, The Riverlands, King’s Landing _and_ the North. . .” she paused. “If we’re _unlucky_ , and Euron Greyjoy’s fleet does not heel, then more than half of Iron Islands’ fighting men as well.”

”Where is Euron Greyjoy now?” Rhaenys asked, turning to Tyrion, who frowned. 

“I’m not quite sure. . .”

”Then we can all agree that we _need_ the North,” Aegon said, hoping he could win the argument and settle the small feud. He didn’t know why, but he had to go there. There was a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach and in the far back of his mind, of strange longing. He _needed_ to go North. “With the North, our numbers are safe. It is a guaranteed victory.”

”Your father was sure of a guaranteed victory as well.” Doran Martell suddenly said, his voice deep but weary. “And what happened to Rhaegar Targaryen?” The man did not give anyone time to answer, because he spoke before they could: “He lost. He died. Then the city was sacked, and drowned in the blood of the innocents. . .”

”We will _not_ have the blood of innocents upon our hands.” Daenerys said, sternly, the fire in her eyes hot and glaring. “But the blood of my enemies.”

”And who are your enemies, sweet girl?” Olenna Tyrell asked, tilting her head, judging Daenerys with her pale, old eyes. Aegon was sure that those eyes had seen many things in the lifetime that they had lived, and that her judgement would be righteous. 

“Everyone who is not standing in this room right now is my enemy.”

The silence that settled was tense, but Olenna Tyrell was _smiling_. 

“If I may speak, my queen,” Willas Tyrell began, leaning forward on his chair, his eyes darting to his grandmother and back at Daenerys. He was the only one who was seated, but also the only one who could not stand properly. 

Daenerys nodded and he continued: “If you mean to take King’s Landing, you must prepare for blood to be spilt. The blood of your enemies, the blood of your own men, _and_ the blood of innocents. . .” although his voice was soft and mellow, the words he spoke were cold and blunt. Aegon wondered what the young man had seen, what he had lived through. He had lost a father, a brother and a sister all in one day. But the man didn’t look angry, he didn’t look furious as if his blood boiled with the thought and desire of revenge. He was strangely calm. _Tired_. 

“War is not a glorious thing. Some men speak highly of it, others wish to experience it, but it is a time of depression. Death is not something that needs to be celebrated. The victory of one side is a loss to the other. We cannot allow ourselves to be shepherded like sheep. If we fight, we must fight soon. . .” he paused, green eyes meeting Aegon’s bright purple. “ _With_ the promise of a victory. The prince is right. We need the North.”

 _Thank you_ , Aegon wanted to tell him, but he couldn’t even work out words. He had hoped that Willas Tyrell would prove to be as wise as men described him to be. Cripples could not fight or ride into battle, so they had to settle with doing others things that could help win the wars. Daenerys was staring at the map before her, at each mountain and dale that made the Seven Kingdoms. It was difficult to read her eyes, but her mouth was drawn into a thin line, and after a moment she raised her gaze. 

“Is anyone against this?”

Asha Greyjoy at last spoke, having visibly lost her patience, and her voice was harsh: “This is taking too much time,” she said, grey eyes flashing. “There is no need for this. For _any_ of this.” She slammed her fists onto the table, startling everyone, and Willas cringed at the sound of the impact. “My uncle’s fleet might be sailing to King’s Landing to support Cersei as we speak. We have the armies, we have the numbers, and we have _three_  dragons.”

Aegon knew what she was implying before she said the words: “We should hit King’s Landing now, _hard_ , with everything we have. The city would fall within a day.”

”We’re not going to burn a city a down,” Aegon said slowly, meaning to get his words clear. “That’s not what we came to do.”

”And what did you come to do?” Olenna Tyrell asked. 

“To retake what’s rightfully ours,” he said, but he sounded sad and weary rather than confident. “To take back what was stolen from us. . .” he paused, meeting Rhaenys’ eyes with hardness, before continuing: “And destroy those who wronged us.”

“Revenge will bring no peace to your soul,” Ellaria Sand said. Her voice was like calm waves; a still ocean upon a starry night. When Aegon looked into her round, brown eyes he saw motherly affection there, and felt slightly ashamed. “It brought Oberyn to a tragic end. It’ll only weary you down.”

”I wouldn’t mind a little bloodshed,” Olenna Tyrell said rather bluntly, startling everyone in the room. “I don’t remember another queen who was more loved than my granddaughter. What’s left of her now? Ashes. With not a soul in the world who seems to care. Well I bloody do, and I wouldn’t mind seeing the proud lions bend or break. . .”

The old woman looked at Aegon, a small smile on her thin lips: “You want to win back what you lost,” her eyes moved to Daenerys. “Retake what is rightfully yours.” And then settled on Rhaenys. “Avenge your mother’s death. Well, I want to see justice for my granddaughter. But you won’t win this war with words and the people’s support. They other noble lords will flock you like sheep.”

He considered her words carefully. A small part of him wished he had met the queen Margaery, a bigger part of him wished that there was no war that needed to be dealt with. He wouldn’t mind a simple life, somewhere far off in the countryside in Essos. With Daenerys by his side; a family to love and care for, children that would ride their dragons and the dragons that would later come. . .

A sweet dream, but only that. A dream. 

“Are you a sheep?” Her next words startled him, and when he looked up he realised she was staring at him. Her pale eyes twinkled, and there was a smirk planted on her lips. For a moment, he had to register what she had just asked him, but before he could come up with an answer she beat him to it: “No, no you’re not.” She looked at both Rhaenys and Daenerys with that same, coy expression. “None of you are. You’re a dragon.”

In the distance he could hear Viserion screech amidst the sound of battling waves. 

“ _Be_ a dragon.”

 

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Her words stuck with him. In the deep night he found himself restless, feeling too hot amidst the silken sheets but far too cold in the open, naked air. Daenerys slept soundly next to him, even as he tossed and turned. 

He was to leave the next morning. A small part of him did not want to go, and there was slight dread rooted in his stomach, but a bigger part of him was strangely excited. The _North_. It sounded so foreign. Instead of the desert wastelands in Essos, with rocks, sand and the boiling sun, he would greeted by wastelands of ice and snow. He wondered what the winter winds would feel like as he would soar through the sky; whether the frost truly did sting as people would sing of in the old tales. 

 _I won’t feel the cold_ , he thought to himself. _Viserion will keep me warm_. . . Writings of old foretold of how dragons were not affected by changing weathers. That their bodies writhed of heat. Aegon remembered years ago, back when Viserion had been small enough to perch upon his shoulder, how the he had felt so warm. He recalled the day little less than a month ago, when he had ridden Viserion for the first time; and the scales beneath his hands had been blazing hot. As if the dragon’s skin had been set afire. 

Daenerys shifted in her sleep beside him,  soft hands searching for his arm. When she did eventually find what she had been searching for, she out a breathy sigh as her body came to rest again. Aegon watched her, sleepy but wide awake, through hooded eyes. 

Her skin gleamed like starlight in the night. Soft moonlight streamed through the balcony doors, and the white curtains flowed like wisps of wind. It was the only light visible in the room, for the fire had died long ago, and Aegon had found no desire to stand up and rekindle the flames. The stone floor would feel cold against his bare feet, and he shivered at the mere thought of it. 

Much to his irritation and shame, his mind wandered back to the stranger in his dreams, the stranger who had been bathed in shadows. Aegon had whispered a name he could not remember, and the stranger had answered his pleas with a more passionate pace. He felt heat blaze into his cheeks at the memory of it, and felt abashed. 

 _See me now_ , he thought to himself, trying to swallow the blush away. _A grown man, flushing like a maiden before her handsome, valiant knight_. . .

He loved Daenerys. He _loved_ her, he truly did. He had adored the sweet girl he had grown up with in the ever-changing cities of Essos, and he had come to glorify the woman she grew up to be. He would gladly give his life if it meant she would receive the throne she so much wanted; and he would do so without hesitation. He knew it. Rhaenys knew it. Daenerys knew it. 

And yet there was the stranger. The _damn_ stranger he couldn’t help thinking of—

Heat pooled into his stomach and he tried his utterly best to ignore it. Guilt, that’s what he felt. It was ridiculous, he had only _dreamt_ of the man. He had not gone behind his queen’s back, he had not betrayed her. There was no affair, only a dream. A stupid dream he could not force himself to forget. 

Perhaps because a part of him didn’t want to forget it. 

Daenerys tugged onto his arm, and nestled her face into the crook of his neck. He felt her lips against his skin, and found the rest he had been looking for. 

 _Dany_. . .

He would go North, for her. Have the Boltons bend the knee, for her. And retake what was rightfully theirs. _For her_.

He would do anything for her.  

Closing his eyes, he let sleep take him into another world of foreign lands. The hills and mountains were bathed in snow,  like shadows of white around him. In the distance stood a wolf, with eyes of blood red, and in the night he could heard it howl, sad and grieving; its cry intermingling with the winter winds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see!  
> Next chapter will hopefully be up within the week, but things are getting packed and busy in my life.  
> Fun fact: I finished the chapter about a week ago but erased and rewrote it. It just looked strange to me, and Aegon felt out of character so I decided to start fresh. Which is why it took so long to publish :’)  
> Also: I’ve been editing earlier chapters. Not major changes but a few altered sentences or different words. 
> 
> Jon’s perspective is coming next, though. Stay tuned. . .
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved!


	13. See, Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets the warden of the North.

In the distance, banners had been set afire. Only a fool would not recognise the dire-wolf upon a white field, the very sigil of a house that was perhaps the most pitied by men. The Stark banners were burning, and they combusted uglily into charred dust only to be blow swiftly with the cold breezes. The wind rippled through both his hair and clothes, and yet it did nothing to blow out the fire.

Dark smoke painted the sky a deep grey, and upon the snowy hills it looked as if the wolves were not howling, but crying to the heavens. Behind them were the Bolton’s banners, tall and proud. _Banners_ , Jon decided to call them, because he knew not else what to say. Flayed men had been hung upon crosses, their withering fleshes faring unwell against the biting frost. He did not recognise the men’s faces but knew their names, and had to swallow down the bile in his throat to keep himself from retching. It was a threat. _We have your brother_ , he could almost hear the Bolton men sing. _He’s next_. But Jon watched, unimpressed, as Ramsay Bolton approached them. 

The young lord was an ugly man. His eyes were pale, and his nose too broad on his pink face to ever be considered attractive. He was an average size, stout, and bore a haughty look that reminded Jon of masked spite or faint insanity. There was something about the man, something unsettling, that made the former lord Commander tense. 

But Jon remained composed, even as Ramsay smiled wickedly, until they stood only a few feet away. The wind roared around them, so that their own banners ripped roughly. Ghost growled lowly beside him, his red eyes like blood; a shivering contrast to the white of his fur and snow. Ramsay looked at the wolf with a smirk: 

“So the stories are true,” he said, the first one to speak. He met Jon’s eyes with false kindness. “Of the bastard on the Wall whose dire wolf is the size of a bear. Tell me, do you ride him into battle as your half-brother Robb did, bastard? Should I sow his head upon your shoulders just as they did to him, bastard? Should I flay you before I kill you for deserting the Watch, _bastard_?”

Jon stared at him, unfazed, and shifted on his mount. He looked around, at Tormund and Ser Davos, at Lyanna Mormont whose glare was as hard as steel, even at Sansa who looked as if she wanted to scratch the man’s eyes out but also flee into the opposite direction. The silence that had settled was thick with tension. Ramsay’s shattering voice broke it:

“Kneel, bastard, and I’ll pardon you. Kneel and I’ll pardon these treacherous lords that betrayed me. Kneel and proclaim me the rightful warden of the North. Do this, bastard, and I’ll let you live.”

 _Will you_? Jon mused to himself. “Death?” He asked instead. “Is that what you think I fear? My life is worth nothing to me.”

His answer had visibly startled Ramsay, but the young lord, not easily left speechless, was quick to come to his senses. He smiled, almost gleefully, and cracked a grin through red, chapped lips that looked a soft if they had been scratched dry: “Your brother’s then. Is his life worth anything to you?” 

“How do we know you have him?” Sansa asked. She looked proud and tall upon her mare, but Jon could see the iron grip she had on her reigns; the fear behind the ice in her eyes. She was afraid, and he couldn’t blame her for it. Wounds would never easily heal, he knew that more than many, and behind the careful mask she had forged for herself was still the foolish, little girl Jon had left back in Winterfell. Sansa _Stark_ , not Lannister or Bolton, was still there. She had grown, she had changed, but she had never left; not really. Not ever.

What happened next came slowly: Ramsay waved his hand, excitedly, and urged Smalljon forward. He looked like a child, about to present his favourite toy to his unamused parents. Slowly, almost hesitant, the man pulled something out a satchel next to him and tossed it onto the ground towards them. 

A dire-wolf’s head, smaller than Ghost’s, rolled before their feet. 

A disgusting feeling reeled inside Jon. Ghost whined lowly in his throat, and Jon had to bite down the urge to unsheathe his sword and kill Ramsay on the spot. What would the North do if their lord died here and now? Would they proclaim Jon as heir, or would a war break before dusk would fall? 

” _Kneel_ ,” Ramsay repeated, harsher this time, his ice eyes set. “See, bastard, that I can be cruel, but I can also be merciful. There’s no need for a battle. Kneel and I’ll give you your brother. Kneel, swear to me, and I’ll let you live free.”

The terms were good. To have Rickon returned to them, wasn’t that what they had come to do? But Jon was no fool, and he knew that behind Ramsay’s twisted kindness and false courtesies he was lying. Jon didn’t believe him, not for a second. Eddard Stark had trusted the wrong people and lost his head for it. Jon would not. Bowing his head, though only for a second, he met Ramsay’s eyes with winter’s frost: 

“Your father is dead,” he said, making sure that his men would hear his words loud and clearly. _Let them hear that their lord, bastard or not, still has no rights_. “But Domeric still lives. Tell me, why is it that you’re named warden of the North and not he?” 

Speechless, Ramsay said nothing for a while. For the first time, he found no snark words to use as his advantage. He looked angry, _furious_ , as if he wanted to bash Jon’s skull open with a rock, or even watch as his hounds would rip through Jon limb by limb. Ramsay’s men visibly shifted on their horses, considering Jon’s words with grim faces. 

“He’s good,” Ramsay at last said, waving his finger at Jon with a cruel smile. “ _Very_ good...” then, he straightened his shoulders as if to appear taller and more regal, and his smile faded into nothing but a scowl. 

“Will you let your little brother die because you were too proud to bend the knee?” He asked. “Face it, bastard. You don’t have the numbers, you don’t have the advantages, and you don’t have Winterfell. The odds are _not_ in your favour...”

Jon allowed Ramsay’s words to settle. He was right. The odds, and the gods, did not favour their side. 

“Tell me, bastard, is there a need of a battle? Are you prepared to lose?”

Surprising even himself, Jon _smiled_. Years ago, back when he had been nothing but a boy of fourteen, he would not have done so. He would have tried to take any route other than war, tried to think honourably and not rashly, but now he found that he did not care. The Jon that would have tried to make terms of peace was dead. He had died on the Wall.

A moment of silence passed. “Are _you_?” Before his eyes flashed the images of the dead. He imagined Robb’s Tully mop of red hair, with Grey-Wind’s head instead of his own. He pictured father’s kind smile, and his bloody head being presented to a cheering crowd. He even thought of Arya, and much to his shame found that he could not remember her face. He had not seen her since Winterfell. He had not seen _any_ of them since Winterfell, and suddenly felt _very_ angry. 

Wintefell was _their_ home. Robb’s, Sansa’s, Arya’s, Bran’s and Rickon’s. It had been their home. _Jon’s_ home. What right did Ramsay Bolton have to it? 

“You’re going to die tomorrow, lord Bolton,” someone said, and it took Jon a moment to realise that it had been he himself. “Sleep well.”

 

 

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“What were you thinking?” Sansa asked him when they returned back to their tent. Her blue eyes were flashing, but she looked more scared than angry. “We don’t have the numbers! We’ll _lose_!”

”Yes, we will.” Jon agreed, turning on his heels to face her. He felt _tired_. He wanted things to end, for he was weary of battles and sick of fighting. What good had ever come out of any war? The Targaryens had lost their throne, the Starks their home, and the Baratheons their name. He wanted to get things over with– for things to be _finished_. “If we don’t fight this battle we’ll die. If we do fight this battle, we’ll die. But we’ll die by taking out a damn handful of their own men. We’ll die for honour.”

 _Honour_? It didn’t sound quite right, but it was the only word he could come think of in the heat of the moment. Yes. _Honour_. For their family’s name and their father. For whatever little remainder was left of the Starks. 

Sansa sat down and stared at the fire. Her hair matched the flames, and in the dark her blue eyes almost seemed grey. For the first time, Jon saw the Stark in her, and wondered why he had never seen it before. Sansa Stark, was her name. Did she know it?

She was the true heir to Winterfell, if Rickon was not yet dead, and Bran too. If there was even the slightest chance of victory, Jon would most likely forfeit his rights to her. Sansa _Stark_. Jon was not a Stark, he was a Snow.

He had thought about it often, what difference it would have made had he been true-born. He would have never gone to the Wall, or had any desire to either. He would have fought with Robb, fought for father, gone to war. He would have been Jon _Stark_. It didn’t sound so bad, and suddenly he felt very sad.

Perhaps he would already be dead, his blood running alongside Robb’s during the Red Wedding; with Ghost’s head mounted upon his shoulder as well. A small part of him wished it had been so. That he wasn’t still alive, waiting for dawn and the battle that would come with it. 

 _I should have stayed dead_ —

Jon wanted to curse the Red Woman for having brought him back. What task had he left unfinished for there to be a need of resurrecting him? He could not warn Westeros of the Northern threats and surely he had not been brought back to unite his family, because even now he could not protect Sansa. They were going to war and they were going to lose. Had he been brought back for that reason only? It seemed cruel. 

Slowly, he made his way to where Sansa was sat and sunk down beside her, feeling utterly hopeless and defeated. They might very well be the last of the Starks. 

 _The last of the pack_. . . 

“We’ll die,” he whispered, not bothering to whisper sweet and comforting lies into her ear. She needed to hear the truth. “But what other choice do we have?”

 In the dark, she reached out a hand towards his, and clutched onto it tightly. Fear was a familiar feeling to both of them. She was afraid, and he was angry with himself for not being able to fight it away for her. 

“I miss them,” she said lowly, her voice hovering through the air like a wisp of wind. She was talking father, this he knew. Father and Robb, little Bran and Rickon. Even Arya, the sister Sansa had never been close with. Their names had been haunting Jon for years, and would for many more to come. He wanted to laugh at himself and his thoughts. _We won’t live that long_...

Sansa fiddled with his fingers, but her eyes never left the flames. They sat together in content silence, envisioning themselves digging their own graves. Had the crypts of Winterfell been destroyed? Jon liked to imagine himself buried next to father. He didn’t even mind if there would be no statue of him or name, just a place to rest. Generations would pass and come, each wondering who slept in the nameless grave.

He felt Ghost lick his other hand, and he unconsciously scratched the wolf’s ear. His mind wandered back to the dream he had dreamt of some time ago, of the unfamiliar voice that had soothed him to rest. He had been standing within the walls of Winterfell, bathed in darkness, save for one single light that crept in the distance. The halls had shifted and then changed, until he stood somewhere unfamiliar. _High in the halls of the kings who are gone_. . . the voice had sang; wrought with deep regret and sorrow. He remembered the anguish in each tune, and the beauty that had been intertwined with the pain. 

 _Through winter and summer, and winter again_... Closing his eyes, he almost fell asleep in the memory of the song, but startled when the tent flew open and Ser Davos marched inside.

The man had proved himself loyal to Jon, but even now he was startled to find that the knight had not yet abandoned him. He had half expected the man to have run off before daylight would shine, back South and far away from the face of death. 

“You don’t need to do this,” Jon had told him once. _You don’t need to die for me_. . . But the man had stayed, and Jon was beyond grateful. 

When Ser Davos spoke, his face and voice was as hard as steel:

“Pardon me, my lord, lady, I fear that I have urgent news.” Jon was immediately on his feet, awake and alert, the warmth of the fire vanishing as the feeling of nothing but cold washed over him. 

“What is it?” He asked. “An attack?” _Please, no_. If the Boltons would attack them now they would ambushed within seconds. It would a massacre so brutal that it would be sung of in tales for centuries to come. Jon already knew they would be losing, but he wanted to go with dignity. But much to his shameful relief, Davos shook his head. 

“Much worse, I’m afraid.” He said, sounding more weary than concerned, and that sentence alone was enough to make Jon worry. “Word has reached from the capital and even farther South. We can’t be sure if they’re true or not, but I don’t doubt their words.”

”What is it?” Jon asked, feeling anxiousness clawing at his throat. Davos hesitated for only a second:

“Dragonstone has been left untouched for years ever since Stannis left,” he began, slowly, clenching his fists at what Jon assumed was a foul memory. “It has newly been retaken. The people whisper of a bigger war. . . The Targaryens have returned.”

Waves of different emotions came crashing upon him like cruel tides of the Northern seas. He felt as if he was drowning amidst the song of sirens. Fear, thrill, anger and wonder spiralled around him; even  _awe_ whispered a lullaby into his ear _._ People had once believed the Targaryens to be dead. Their house had fallen with shame and not honour, but even Jon could not deny the thrilling tales of awe and sorrow they had left behind.

He had loved each and every story Old Nan used to tell to him and Robb when they were little. Of Ser Duncan the Tall and Egg, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, of Daeron the Young Dragon and most importantly Aegon the Conqueror; who had forged the Iron Throne with the breath of his Black Dread. He retained the fear and anticipation he had felt when she would recall to them of the Dance of Dragons, remembered feeling sad whenever she would come to the part where the dragons were being slaughtered; and never understood why Robb never wept.

The Targaryens were of a people lost to the world. People of tale. People of _legend_. But they had been equally as mad as they had been great, and shoved terror and fear down each and every man’s throat. Some spoke of them sadly, others said that their deaths had been a gift from the gods; both old and new. That the world was best rid of them and their monstrous beasts.

”They’ve returned, Jon,” Ser Davos said, taking in a deep breath. “And one is headed right this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I anticipated for this to be a longer chapter, oh well. 
> 
> Originally, I had intended for Aegon to come as a ‘surprise’, but that would be unrealistic. Word spreads fast in real life. If most of the South already know of the Targaryens’ whereabouts, surely the North would as well? 
> 
> Kudos and comments are loved!


	14. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon flies North

The morning rays bathed the sky in hues of red, orange and indigo. It was as still as a set sea when Aegon stepped out onto the balcony, staring into the East with a distant longing in his heart. By the shores, where the low tides rose steadily up onto the black sand, he watched as the dragons lay asleep. 

Drogon was some distance away from where Rhaegal and Viserion lay huddled together. The black one had always been more bold than the other two, always independent, always alone; even since they were hatchlings. Viserion had craved affection just as much as a human child. He had cried whenever he had been put into a cage; whined until Aegon or Dany let him out and propped him onto their shoulder. He had clung onto them as long as he could, until he had been too big for them to carry. 

Watching him now, Aegon felt a strange surge of pride, as if he was looking down at his own child. _I am_ , he thought to himself. _Daenerys is the mother of dragons — but I’ve watched over him just as much as she_. 

He startled when he felt two arms wind around his bare waist. Daenerys pressed her cheek against his shoulder blades, and he felt her let out a breath as she did. “You don’t have to go,” she whispered. He knew she wouldn’t hold him back, but that voice of hers almost made him hesitate. He smiled, turning so that they faced: 

“We need more men,” he said, cradling her face in his hand. He brushed her cheek, moved to tickle where her jaw and neck met, before twining his fingers through her hair that barely brushed over her collarbones. “I want you to win,” he kissed her. “I’ll do anything to help you win.”

Daenerys stared up at him, her amethyst eyes shimmering in the morning light, and smiled. “When you’re done, when the Boltons bend the knee, come back.” Her voice was light, but he could hear the warning in her tone. “ _Return_ to me. I command you to.”

 _Don’t die_ , she was trying to tell him, but had not the strength to. Aegon smiled, pressing their foreheads together:

”Of course,” he whispered, hoping she could hear the sincerity in his voice. 

Aegon wasn’t afraid, no. He believed he had nothing to fear. He was more concerned, if anything. What would happen if the Boltons _wouldn’t_ bend the knee? If the North would not swear to fight with them? Tyrion had told them that the Boltons owed everything to the Lannisters. It had been Tywin Lannister who had named them wardens of the North. 

Would Aegon have to turn to violence? Would he have to assert dominance, to set an example for the other lords of what would happen should they reject the Targaryens’ simple offers? Would he have to burn them down? 

Aegon shuddered. No. He would not burn them down. 

 _They will bend the knee_ , he tried to assure himself. _Once they see Viserion, once they see me. They’ll bend the knee, you’ll see, you’ll see_. . . It made no difference. Fretting only made his concerns worse.

Gazing into the East, he pulled Dany into his arms and rested his head atop of hers. A soft wind blew swiftly through their hairs, entwining their silvery tresses together so that they melted into one and pointed North. His mind wandered to Meereen, to Essos and all the places they had dwelt. What about the people they had left behind? What happened to them? They had been their responsibility and their people. 

 _Not our people anymore_ , he reminded himself, a bitter feeling lingering in his gut. His mind wandered to a little slave girl he had once held in his arms, what felt like a century ago. The little girl had clutched onto him tightly and buried her face into the crook of his neck. It had been a sunny day, the sky a beautiful blue, but in the air hovered the scent of blood and rotting flesh. One could taste Iron upon their tongue.

She had not wanted to let go, even as he had gently removed the collar that choked her by the neck. She had looked into his eyes and touched his hair, repeating a single word he could it understand. Where was _she_ now?

A shriek pierced through the air, and looking back down at the shores he noticed the dragons had awoken. Viserion was looking at him, Aegon could see that even in the distance, peering up at him with his molten eyes of gold. A warm feeling surged over Aegon, and in return he smiled. 

 

 

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It took Aegon a while, but eventually he found Jon secluded away from the others. The man was in his own chambers, looking out at the balcony, gazing not East but West. His hair flew with the wind, some of the streaks red and others silver. Had he looked so old the last time Aegon had seen him? It hadn’t felt so long ago, but Aegon supposed roughly a year had passed. The years had not been kind with him, not any more than they had been kind to Aegon. 

Slowly, he approached the man, who had yet noticed the royal company. He only turned when the prince coughed, not even the slightest startled. Aegon smiled sweetly at him: 

“Did you think I wouldn’t say goodbye?”

Jon turned away, scowling: “Isn’t that the only thing you ever tell me?”

Knowing Jon’s attitude, Aegon didn’t take insult but simply laughed. “ _Hey_. You were the one who decided to leave the last time,” he lightly commented, coming to stand beside the man he had always trusted. “You promised to win Dorne’s alliance for us, and you did. I haven’t been able to thank you.”

There was silence for a moment.

”I could go North, you know, all you need to do is ask.” 

Aegon furrowed his brows, turning to frown up at Jon: “You’ve done so much,” he whispered. “ _Too_ much. I’m forever grateful for your help, your loyalty, but this I need to do. Not Rhaenys, not Dany, not you but _me_.”

”Why?” Jon asked, at last turning to face him. Only then did Aegon notice the hurt in his deep, blue eyes. “Why does it have to be you?”

Aegon opened his mouth as if to answer, but no words came out. Why _did_ it have to be him? He did not truly know. It was a feeling, an itch deep in his bones. He had to go. There was help up there, he knew there was. He didn’t like to believe in fate, but there was no other explanation. His instincts were telling him to go North, so he would.

Shaking his head, Aegon turned away: “I thought you would have more faith in me—“

”It’s not that,” Jon said. “I doubt the Boltons will manage to kill you, but I don’t think that flying North will do you any good. If anything it’ll do more damage. The Northerners are not all fond of Targaryens—“

Aegon glared, not at Jon but at the distance and old grudges that had nothing to do with him. “The _Starks_ , not Northerners,” he corrected bitterly. “And there are no more Starks.”

Jon scoffed, leaning against the railing. “You’re a bloody fool if you think that.”

The silence that settled this time was tense. Aegon thought about Jon’s words, whether the rumours were true and that the Starks truly did endure. What difference would that make? They didn’t hold the North, the Boltons did, and even if they did it would be no harder to break them than it would any other family. They were just another House that had yet to bend the knee. 

Yes, the Starks might not be fond of the Targaryens; but the Targaryens weren’t all too fond of _them_ either. The last time Aegon checked, they didn’t have dragons. 

Exhaling sharply, Aegon spoke: “I don’t understand,” he said. “Everyone seems to not want to see me go. Rhaenys doesn’t, although she doesn’t say it and Dany doesn’t, even though she won’t forbid me to. Arianne Martell tells me that it is unwise even though we need the numbers, and Asha Greyjoy would rather have us attack King’s Landing with dragons—“

”So do I,” Jon said, startling Aegon. He met the young prince’s gaze with blunt coldness: “You have three dragons, you ought to use them—“

”I am!” Aegon snapped back. “Why does no one realise this? Viserion will help me win the North—“

”Viserion should help you take the capital, that way you’ll end up winning the damn North in the progress.”

”What, and risk forming a rebellion?” He asked, surprised at his own rudeness. He had never spoken to Jon thus, why was he doing so now? He had wanted their parting to be peaceful, calming even. He didn’t want to _argue_. “I don’t want to attack Jon, you know I don’t like killing—“

”No one likes killing.”

Aegon glared, “I could name a handful of men who _like_ killing.”

At last, Jon turned to face him, approaching Aegon with intimidating steps. Aegon did not flinch, he did not step back, even as the other man’s face was inches from his own. So close that he could feel hot breath tickling his cheek. Jon was almost a head taller, and reminded Aegon of an old, wounded animal. The scars on his face were like white threads, some connecting to his newly formed wrinkles and others evident and ugly: 

“You’ve never been to war, boy,” there it was. _Boy_. The term Jon would refer him as whenever he was even the slightest unhappy. “You don’t know the horrors of it. Sure, you’ve faced a battle or two, but war is different. War is blood, death, rape, chaos and _killing_. You can’t escape it, and dragons are _not_ invincible.”

At the mention of dragons Aegon tensed, almost losing his breath in the progress. It was one thought Aegon could never bring himself to think of. If any harm would come to Viserion, he didn’t know what he would do. 

“I won’t die.” Aegon said, so confidently that he might’ve convinced about anyone. Anyone but Jon. Suddenly, the anger in the man’s eyes faltered, and was replaced by sadness, prolonged sorrow and weariness. _So_ much weariness. When he spoke, his voice was quiet: 

“The last time I said goodbye to a silver haired prince going to war I never saw him again. . .” He stepped back, and Aegon let outa quivering breath. He hadn’t even realised he had been holding it. But when Jon continue his voice had turned distant and cold again, the look in his eyes back to hard steel. “He told me he’d make things better. He only made things fucking worse.”

Swiftly turning on his heels he left, the sound of his pounding footsteps echoing like thunder in the still morning, leaving Aegon alone with nothing but the sound of clashing waves and crying seagulls. 

He thought of his father, of the silver prince who had ridden to battle and not returned, and at last felt afraid. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while since I last updated. I hope you guys didn’t lose interest. The chapter’s rather short, but hey it’s an update.
> 
> Oh, btw, if you’re interested I just made an instagram: @griffgon I’d really appreciate a follow ;)
> 
> Kudos and comments are loved!


	15. Battle of the Bastards

The heavens were bleeding red. 

In the distance he could see the dark silhouettes of soldiers, some standing and others upon horses; with the stone-cold faces of war and all of them armed. Silence reigned for the short moment that Jon was caught in, and he could feel nothing but the frost of winter biting on his skin.

In the distance a horn blew, and he closed his eyes at the wail of it. 

Ghost stood silent by his side. Even though Jon was mounted upon his own stallion, the wolf’s head reached his shoulder; and he could only hope that Ghost’s red eyes would haunt the other men to their deaths. 

 _I’m going to die_ , it was more of a statement rather than a conclusion. He knew he would not live to see another day. If the Boltons proved to be merciful, a hope equally as vain as winning the battle, they would let him see the fully risen sun one more time. 

Opening his eyes, Jon shifted on his horse, hoping that at the very least he could appear intimidating.

In the distance he caught Ramsay Bolton’s smile. 

“This is your final chance, bastard,” his voice rung through the valley. “Kneel now  and accept my pardon, kneel now and carry away back to the Wall you came from. Kneel now and I’ll show you mercy. Kneel not and you will die.” The last words were spoken mockingly, a sweet tint to his cruel voice. 

Jon did not say anything in return. Silently, he whispered a prayer to his gods, hoping that if they were real they would listen. 

 _I will not die with fear_ , he thought to himself. _I will go as my honourable father did — stare into death’s eyes with strength_. It should have been more difficult, coming to terms with his own death, but Jon did not budge. He had already died before. 

From the corners of his eyes he caught the sight of Tormund, standing forefront before the Free Folk. Jon felt sad for a moment, having to drag them with him to his doom – but what other escape was there to offer? Today or not, all would eventually die. The true enemy was patiently waiting to devour the remnants of men in their Northern den. 

 _Do something_! Jon almost wanted to scream. _Give us a reason to attack_. The lord of  Winterfell stood too proudly for comfort, mounted upon his steed that stood between tattered, flayed men. Jon could not recognise their faces, but he could not bring himself to shrug it off. It was a warning. 

 _See, bastard_ , he could already hear Ramsay sing. _See what will become of you if you do not kneel_. . .

Gripping onto his reigns, Jon straightened his back. _See_ , he wanted to say. _What will become of you when Winter finally comes_... 

Beside him, Ghost howled. 

The enemy team began moving. Stepping aside so that the archer could come front, they raised their bows and stretched back their strings; only letting go when one called ‘loose!.’ A rain of arrows came tumbling from the skies, daggers against the red hues of dawn, and in a fit of panic the Free Folk withdrew. 

Jon did not. He watched, almost uninterested, as the arrows came towards him; and did not flinch even as his horse reeled when they came in contact with the cold earth a few feet before him. 

The feathers were red with blood, and they stuck out of the ground like thorns. _A strike_ , he thought to himself. _A threat. A reason to attack_. Unsheathing his sword, relishing in the sound of the hissing blade coming in contact with the frosty air, Jon pointed it towards them, hoping they could see the dire-wolf head gleaming on the hilt; and waited. 

Only when the second horn blew did he ride forward with the dim cries of his soldiers fight after him. He could hear nothing  but the pounding of hooves. Ramsay Bolton did the same, with a loud roar urged his men forward, but he himself remained still. 

Like a sea of black waves they rode steadily; each gallop and each breath ringing through their ears like thunder. He barely noticed the enemies before him coming closer and closer, all he could do was stand still in time and wait...

He did not feel afraid. There was no fearing death, not when you already knew what would become of you. What would happen to your soul when all life would be drained, the moment darkness consumed you whole. Jon suddenly craved the voice in his dreams, the one he had heard in the halls of Winterfell, a voice that was familiar and yet one he could not recognise. He was going to die but h found no reason to grieve. _Maybe then I will at last find some rest_. . .

He thought of Sansa, shivering alone in their tent, with dumb prayers to the gods for him would return to battle. No, Jon remembered. Sansa did not pray to the gods, not anymore. She must already know that he would die. He thought of Rickon, alone in the dark dungeons of Winterfell; perhaps thinking that Jon would come and save him. What would happen to him when Jon would die? Surely, Ramsay would not find the need of being merciful then? 

He thought of Arya, wherever she was in the world, and wondered how she would react to the news of his death. 

 _Bold you are but also a fool_ , Jon thought to himself. He was riding into _battle_. A battle there was no chance of winning. A battle that was nothing more but a suicide he was so desperately trying to mask as a noble deed.  _The Starks have endured — but for how long_? 

He barely felt the collision, only the cry of an enemy soldier as he sheathed his sword through the armour and chest; until the edge of his blade sprung through the back. Blood splattered before his face, but he barely had any time to register before he flew off his own horse; hitting shoulder first against the cold earth. 

A loud _crack_ rung through his ear and spasm flared like a hot fire through his entire arm. Jon let out a hiss between gritted teeth as white light flashed before his eyes. He could hear the cries of men and horses mingling together to form a symphony of terrors. If he would have had to guess what Seven hells sounded like, he stood there now.

All around him men erupted into chaos, some crying and screaming, others slashing at each other in blind madness, and many already drowning in their own blood. 

Rising up, clutching onto his sword as one would for life, he saw nothing but darkness. There was a ringing in his ears, one that made it difficult to grasp what was going on around him. 

“ _Watch out_!” He heard someone scream, and quickly without thinking Jon ducked down, grabbing a crumbled body of a dying man and holding him aloft as one would a shield. He felt the impact of a thousand arrows come down upon him, and heard men scream as many dropped down dead. Beside him a man fell down, an ugly arrow sticking through his left eye. Jon did not know whether it was one of his own or whether he belonged to the other team– he couldn’t bring himself to think. 

Tossing the corpse aside, he arose again, this time seeing the battlefield clearly before him. Seconds ago it had been a plain field, but now it was littered with corpses and wounded soldiers; all clawing at each other for blood. 

In the distance some man hollered, staggering towards him with his sword raised high. Jon glimpsed madness in the poor man’s weary eyes, but just as he was about to end the fool’s misery a white shadow leapt before him. Within seconds the opposite man was on the ground, screaming in fear and terror as his throat was torn open. 

Ghost’s red eyes met Jon’s, the white his painted crimson. 

For a faint moment, Jon could do nothing but watch in astonishment as the wolf licked his muzzle. 

“Loose!” He heard someone cry in the distance, and in mad panic Jon ducked down again, hoping that none of the arrows would hit Ghost. Much to his surprise, the impact never came, and raising his gaze he noticed that it had been his own archers; and that they had all aimed at the very opposite side where Ramsay Bolton proudly stood. There was no sweat on the ugly man’s face, no blood staining his rich tunic, and suddenly Jon felt _very_ angry. 

 _Coward_! He wanted to scream but minded his tongue. Jon no longer believed in any gods, but if anybody cared to listen to him he prayed he would at the very last be granted the satisfaction of tearing up that man’s face. 

Rising up again, Jon barely managed to straighten himself before three men came towards him. The first one looked young, not accustomed to battles, and Jon was easily rid of him. One duck and a slash and the poor boy crumbled to the ground dead.

The second man came towards him with an axe, and Jon struggled to step aside before the blade of it swung dangerously close to his head. Taking ahold of the man’s collar, Jon smashed his own head against the man’s, and only when he cried out in pain did Jon slit his throat. Ghost easily dealt with the third one before Jon could, and looking in the wolf’s silent gaze an idea came to his mind. 

A cold gust suddenly blew through him, brushing through the blood on his armour and hair. It was as if all the fear in the world had disappeared, and he could do nothing but smile. “Ghost,” he sang softly. “Come here.”

Like a wind of winter the wolf came towards him. It was as if time stood still between the two of them while the battle and anarchy ensued all around them. They were immune to everything. Raising his hand, Jon massaged Ghost’s muzzle, peering into the red eyes as if the wolf was the other half of his spirit. 

Moving around him, all the while brushing his hand through the soft, white fur, Jon came to stand beside him, letting out a quivering breath as he gripped the rising hairs. 

 _Winter is coming_ , he thought to himself, recalling his father’s words. Climbing onto the wolf’s back, Jon mounted him as he would a horse; feeling a strange fire roar in his heart. Suddenly, he felt the urge to devour all the enemy men whole — watch the field combust in flames and have Ramsay Bolton turn into ash in his hands. 

But the feeling washed away when Ghost howled, and a dozen of men turned their heads in alarm. Many of them were daring ( or was _foolish_ a better term? ) and approached him with broken wails, clutching onto their axes or swords with limp and tired arms. 

Closing his eyes, Jon drew in a deep breath, listening closely to the incoming footsteps and heavy breaths of soldiers. For the fourth time a horn was blown. Only then did he open them again, feeling a strange wildness take ahold of his mind and body. He felt like a beast, more animal than man. _Feral_.

An odd emotion surged through him when he glimpsed the fear in their eyes, he wanted to weep and laugh. He relished in the cries of men as he tore through their throats, sinking his teeth into their necks and tearing the soft skin. The taste of iron was like sugar upon his tongue, a sweet wine to wash down the bile rising in his throat.

Raising his head to the bleeding sky, Jon howled. 

 

 

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Aegon felt like a bird set free. 

He could not come to understand _why_ he had taken flight for granted. He had only ridden Viserion once, in Meereen by his queen’s orders, but as he sat straddled upon the dragon’s golden back; he could not to think of ever meeting the earth again. The skies were their kingdom, what _harm_ could come to those who ruled the skies?

Aegon let out a caged laugh as Viserion roared, clutching onto the scales as one would for dear life. There was no saddle. He clung onto nothing but trust. 

 _Freedom_ was a strange word, one he had never been able to fully interpret. But as he flew through the sky, with the cold winds rippling through his hair and armour, he felt free. Death could have been on his heels and he would not have feared it. Upon Viserion’s back, he felt something beyond invincible. 

Had his ancestor felt this foreign feeling when he had ridden Balerion through the skies? Had he felt so _powerful_ when he had conquered the squabbling kingdoms of Westeros one by one, watched with satisfactions and glee as each king came to bend the knee? 

What had Aegon the Conqueror felt when he saw the terrors in the pathetic men’s eyes. Men who had never seen a _dragon_ before _?_ Aegon could only wonder. He couldn’t stop smiling, hooting into the open air, cheering to no one but the gods of they could hear. He felt like a child, gleefully watching a tourney with excitement and youth. _A dragon, I’m riding a dragon..._

Leaning forward he rested his head upon Viserion’s back, pressing his cheek firmly against the hot scales. Even so high up in the air it was difficult for him to feel the cold. The dragons were fire embodied. Their bodies were warm, often hot, and at times sizzling. Fire surged through their veins as blood would, and with the correct word Aegon could unleash it onto the wasted kingdoms below. 

Peering down, he felt as if though he could see the entirety of Westeros mapped out before him. It looked so _small_ and feeble where he admired it so high above. Staring down at it, he couldn’t help but worry. The height was great, and the fall would be fatal. What would happen were he to slip? Had a dragon-rider ever fallen down from their dragon’s back before? 

A pathetic death it would be. Aegon refused to be the first. 

Raising his head, he drew in a deep breath, feeling the frost freezing his lungs and turning them into ice. The wind carried his hair, unbound and unbraided, rippling behind him as a silver wave. 

His mind wandered to the last encounter he had with Jon. He remembered the look in the man’s old, blue eyes, the bitterness and hardness. There had been anger, weariness, worry, _defeat_. Jon had looked so utterly defeated as if he was saying goodbye to Aegon for the very last time. As if he would never see the prince again — and no matter how much it hurt he looked as if he had already come to terms with it, and in a strange way made his peace with it.

It made Aegon worried. 

He couldn’t help but doubt his decision. Should he perhaps have listened to Asha Greyjoys’ ruthless idea? Should they have stormed King’s Landing in full power, with their armies and dragons banded together? Should the North have been the very last of their concerns? 

Perhaps, but there was no use in regretting it now. Aegon would not turn around, only a coward would dare abandon such an important mission. He had to accomplish it for himself and his own image, if anything. He had at last returned to Westeros. The least he could do was assert dominance, even though he wished not to.

Aegon was no coward. Willingly or not, they _would_ bend the knee. I won’t turn back, he thought to himself. He wanted to finish the task for Dany — he needed to prove to her that he could. There was only one way left to go. 

And that was North. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few alterations to the battle compared to the show, this is an alternate universe after all. Now, I’m no War/battle expert, I just sincerely hope this chapter was not bad. I’m not particularly good at writing fight scenes :’)
> 
> Oh, and no: Jon is not mad, just angry. 
> 
> This is mostly unedited, so if there are grammar mistakes the fault is mine. I will read through this and fix it later, I just felt like I needed to update. Hope you guys still enjoy reading this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also: I reached 100 kudos a short while ago. Thank you all so much<3 ily


	16. Blood-Drenched Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Rhaenys share their thoughts about Aegon.

The room was shivering cold. 

Dark eyes stared out at the gloomy day with disdain, not sure what to think of the deep, grey clouds littered the sky of its sweet, blue hues. Dawn had only passed less than two hours ago, and in less than two hours the sky had been covered with thick, heavy clouds. _Two hours_ , and felt as if Aegon had been gone for an eternity. She knew not how to explain it properly but there was a shift in the atmosphere, as if a sweet light had been blown out, as if the world had grown cold and dark without his joyous presence and soft, shimmering eyes—

A soft knock startled her back to the present time, pulling her out of her daydream. Turning her head, Rhaenys had barely the time to answer before the door creaked open, and inside stepped Daenerys. 

The queen wore a gown of crimson and black. She had gifted her scarlet cloak to Aegon, draped it over his shoulders and planted a steady kiss upon his lips before he had clambered upon his dragon’s golden back and flown away towards the Northern winds. Her hair was a silver waterfall that reached only down to her shoulder blades, loose as she so often wore it outside of court. Dany was gracious enough to offer Rhaenys a smile, but the princess found it difficult to return it. Much to her relief, the queen did not take insult: 

”You rarely laugh,” was the first thing she said, coming to stand beside Rhaenys who stared out the balcony. There was a sweetness to her bright gaze, a breathy calmness and slight admiration: “I don’t think I have seen properly you smile ever since. . . well, since I was a child.”

Rhaenys ducked her head, not in shame but rather defeat. _I only smile to Aegon_. “I find it difficult to,” she admitted, finding no reason to sugarcoat her reason for her queen. “It’s easier here... to not feel hopeless and lost– but the sadness doesn’t go away. I fear that no Iron Throne will soothe our losses...”

Daenerys did not answer and for a short moment Rhaenys feared she had angered the Dragon Queen. However, she eventually found her words, and with a strange look in her eyes said: “I suppose. Then again, nothing ever could. Still, it gives us no reason to leave our wounds aching. That way we might drown in our regrets – if madness does not ensnare us first.”

Startled, Rhaenys turned to meet her amethyst eyes: “And do you?” She asked. “Think that madness will ensnare us?”

Dany smiled sadly: “I hope not.”

The silence that followed was comforting. 

“You know, I used to adore you,” Daenerys said, suddenly, startling Rhaenys, and the princess turned towards the queen with raised brows. “I still do. You never let Viserys frighten you, even when he would lose his temper and scream. Never once did you appear frightened, never once were you weak. You never crumbled... you became a mother where you were suppose to be a sister; Aegon would not have made it without you. _I_ would not have made it without you...”  there were tears in her eyes. “One would think that the years of torment we endured would have ruined us, but I – I’ve never felt more alive.”

Carefully, Rhaenys took her hand into her own, squeezing it gently. Then, pulling it towards her lips she planted a kiss, breathing in the rosy scent of her queen’s skin. “We will win the throne,” she whispered, her breath hovering above the pale skin. Raising her gaze, she hoped Daenerys could see the meaning behind her words. “We will take it, if not for us then for you. We would die for you if need be, you know this.”

Daenerys smiled sadly, turning her gaze from Rhaenys and outside again. “I used to think that there was nobody in the world that I could trust...” she close her eyes. “And I suppose that it is partly true. If I cannot trust you or Aegon, then who else is there?”

Rhaenys allowed her hand to slip from her gasp. “There is no one we can trust but ourselves,” her voice was low andstern. “People want to eliminate all that they fear – and what is there in the world that people fear other than dragons?”

The queen was silent for a moment. “Death,” she whispered. “And I fear that Aegon has walked into its open arms...”

Rhaenys feared that as well. 

“I miss him,” she admitted, stepping out onto the balcony. Daenerys followed. “I know that not even half a day has passed but I miss him — he should not have gone alone, not up there- _not_ North...” _Aegon_. Aegon who had always been by her side. Aegon who she had sworn to protect ever since she was a little girl and he nothing but a baby still by his wet nurse’s chest. Aegon who had always been soft and kind and not fond of violence. Aegon—

“He will return to us,” Dany said, but it sounded as if even she was trying to convince herself that. “He promised me.” Rhaenys could only hope.  _Aegon doesn’t break promises_... Then, Dany said: “He has Viserion.”

Startled, a thought she had banished long ago returned to her, and in worry the princess spoke: “What happened to Aegon’s sister Rhaenys when she flew to Dorne?” She asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper. The wind that blew through her hair was cold, and she gripped onto the railing so that her knuckles turned white. “What happened to her and her dragon?”

Daenerys frowned, placing a hand upon her shoulder, but her voice shook. “The North isn’t Dorne.”

”No,” Rhaenys agreed. “It’s worse.”

”Indeed,” startled, both Targaryens spun on their heels to see that Arienne Martell stood behind them. Neither of them had heard her come in nor sensed her looming presence. The Dornish girl was short, even shorter than Daenerys, with luscious hair and tempting, amber eyes. Her figure was womanly, perhaps the most womanly Rhaenys had ever seen, but her smile was kind. “The Northerners are proud. The Starks may no longer hold it, but the North is still the North...”

She came to stand beside Rhaenys, leaning over the railing so that her hair trailed with the wind. She was gracious enough to offer Rhaenys an apologetic smile. “My apologies, Princess. I should have knocked...”

Rhaenys turned away from her lustful eyes, lest they tempt her. “There is no need to apologise,” she said instead. “You were not intruding.” 

“You were speaking of the prince, were you not?” Arienne asked, tilting her head. “The Prince Aegon.”

Rhaenys did not answer and so the princess of Dorne continued: “I was set to marry a Targaryen Prince once, did you know that? Uncle Oberyn was so desperate to have you returned to us when he found out about your survival — and mend the bonds between our families that the Prince Rhaegar tore...”

At last, slightly angered by the light insult aimed at her late father Rhaenys felt the strength to meet Arienne’s gaze again: “And would you have?” She asked, her voice low. “Married him?”

She was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “I would not have had any say in it, and I would not have cared. In Dorne, one can have as many mistresses and affairs as one pleases – as long as one’s spouse allows it. Viserys would not have been able to tame me either way, and I would not have held him back. It would have made no difference. He would have become king of the Seven Kingdoms, and I his queen rather than the ruling Princess of Done.” She laughed lightly, “my brother would have liked that...”

Arienne Martell was a peculiar thing, Rhaenys decided. So sweet and yet so strong, so hard and yet so soft, feminine and masculine. She had a strange aura, one Rhaenys could not name, but something she decided she could admire – something she liked. “What are the Martell words?” She asked. 

“Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.” The Dornish girl answered smiling, the gleam of mischief still so prominent in her dark, tempting eyes. “And they’re your words as well, Princess.” 

Rhaenys returned the smile. Yes, she liked Arienne very much.

 

 

 

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The valley was drowning in crimson blood. 

All around chaos ensued. Maroon melted with the snow and men lay scattered upon the ground, either lifeless or writhing in pain, their screams echoing as drums. The corpses of horses lay butchered from east to west, and very few remained left alive, earnestly crying and galloping, some still with their dead riders limply attached to them. It was the glimpse of a nightmare — a nightmare that had become real. 

Jon was panting, clutching onto the blood-stained fur of Ghost as if he clutched onto dear life. They were losing – Ghost was the only thing keeping him alive.

The sky was bleeding red, Jon knew no longer whether it was the sun that painted it so or blood that blurred his vision. But dawn had come, the day had passed, and dusk was returning to them once again. He feared the battle would never come to an end. 

What had spiralled within seconds felt like an eternity – yet a day had passed in the blink of an eye. He knew not where he stood, which men he fought, only that he killed those who intended to kill him in first. The Northerners were cold and the Freefolk ruthless. Where Jon had expected a crushing defeat he was surprised to find that both side were almost equal. 

Almost. 

The loud cry of a horn gave was exhausting, and he felt the crushing weight of defeat already burdening his shoulders. Had Robb felt this way? He could only wonder. Had Robb, too, felt so utterly hopeless as Jon felt now? Had he stared into the open eyes of death that plucked the lives before him as weed, and wondered whether he was next? If so, he could not help but pity his older brother; brother who had won all of his wars and yet died in a Red Wedding. 

“ _Jon_!” Turning his head, Jon looked down at a dirty man who was dripping in blood. It took him a moment to realise it was Tormund. “Jon, we can’t fight them.” He panted, and only then did he notice the way Tormund’s arm hung to his side, and how his knee was twisted into what looked like a painful angle. 

 _I’ve made a mistake_ , the thought strayed through his mind, but he did not say it out loud. No honourable man ever would. He should’ve stayed at the wall, sent a letter to King’s Landing as _Lord Commander_ and warn them of the threat that was to come. He should’ve stayed, not left to be slaughtered as not a wolf but a sheep. But there was no man up there he could fully trust.   
  
There was no one in the world he could trust. 

Looking around in panic, Jon breathed in the scent of war and death. Ramsay’s men were starting to gather around them, shepherding the remainder of Jon’s small numbers into a tightly knitted circle. Each step of their heavy boots against the cold earth rung as thunder. It took Jon a moment to realise they were surrounding them – they were surrounding them and there was no way out. There was no way to go but towards the point of their spears. 

Ghost snarled and growled at the men, but immediately stopped when Jon’s fingers brushed against the back of his neck. “It’s alright, boy,” Jon whispered, feeling the tension in the wolf’s body relax beneath his touch. “It’s alright...”  He knew not why he was offering comfort, knowing that there was no escaping this. Death came to all; Jon only wished it had not come twice to him within the same month. 

He had the sudden urge to slide off Ghost’s back, to command his wolf to leap through the forming wall of men, kill some if need be, and towards the woods; to disappear and never be seen against because Ghost _could_. It was selfish – selfish to not let him go, to keep him and have him die by his master’s side. But Ghost was the only thing that Jon had left, the only thing that had stayed in his life when all else was lost. Ghost was his and Jon _wanted_ to be selfish, just this once. 

If the Starks were to die their wolves would go with them.

Ramsay’s men were already killing some of his own, the screams echoed through the air like the bite of winter. One, two, three fell down. Tormund was hollering in the distance, Jon heard a yelp but knew not who it belonged to. _I’m going to die_...

He closed his eyes just as another horn was blown. In solemn hopelessness, he waited for a final impact.

Yet no arrows came, and Jon wondered for a faint second whether he had heard the horn at all. Turning his head, he saw Ramsay Bolton in the distance, sitting proud upon his stallion, cloaked in a dire-wolf’s fur with cold, grey eyes. Jon wanted to scream, to blindly charge towards the coward that only stood and watched, to rip him apart as his hounds did to all of his prisoners. If Jon could only reach him he would — he would watch the man bleed before his feet. . .

But Ramsay was not looking at the battlefield anymore, this Jon noticed. He was staring into the South. 

A horn blew again, but not from where the lord of Winterfell stood. Wide eyed and alarmed, Jon whipped his head towards the sound of bellowing horns, his own breath caught in his throat. For a faint second there was silent, where neither sides dared move, and Jon could only hear his own heartbeat against his chest pounding in sync with Ghost’s.

A gust of wind blew through his hair and clothes, the cold of it freezing the blood flowing through his veins. Time had stopped entirely for a moment. A second felt like an eternity, but finally he felt it.  Jon felt the earth shake beneath Ghost’s four feet. 

Then, as a morning light, he saw sky-blue banners rippling in the wind. Far in the distance come the hollers of a thousand men, and upon the hill he glimpsed the red of his sister’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, I know (yikes) but I think we all need a deep breath before the next one comes up (hopefully soon). Hope you guys enjoyed it though. I just feel like I haven’t given the girls enough attention :’)


	17. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Rhaenys dream of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: long chapter. Grab a snack, sit back. Enjoy after a long time of absence<3

It was cold, and Jon was dreaming. 

At first he felt confused, unsure whether the battle had been lost or won, or whether he was not dreaming at all but dead. A wave of foreign emotions washed over him as the memories of battle plucked and strung in his mind, humming a strange tune of resent and weariness. He felt oddly content, but at the same time restless. The earth beneath him was damp and cold, but the air was like the bite of winter. 

Opening his eyes, Jon arose to sit, surprised to find that he faced nothing but empty darkness. Feeling something cool wash over him, he noted that he was submerged in light water, the pool as deep as shadows. It took him a moment to realise that he was sat by the shores of a river. 

“ _Onward_!” 

Startled, Jon struggled to his feet, whipping around to the sound of commanding voices and heavy marching of boots. His hand went to his belt, but he was startled to find that he had no sword, and was stripped of his armour. He could see nothing but the dark, but he could still hear voices: a dozen of them, a _hundred_. All hollering and marching; some shrieking commands. 

Was the battle still going on? Had it yet been lost or won? Had he slipped off of Ghost’s back and lost consciousness, and now that he had awoken again dusk had passed and the night returned again? Looking up into the sky he saw no stars, only the abyss. 

The horrid sound of steel against steel rung in the distance, and the cries of men sang all around him, but he saw not a movement and not a soul. Horses whined and soldiers hollered, he could smell the scent of death all around him – yet he saw _nothing_. He knew that he stood in the heat of the battle, but not a battle that was yet to come but one that had already passed...

” _No, please — please_!”

Jon searched blindly for the sound of the begging voice of a man that  rung a short distance away from him, preparing for an impact that never came. He only heard a bloody scream, the horrible sound of a sword sheathing into flesh, before the din of a body dropping to the ground.

Covering his ears, he crumbled to his knees, struggling to block the hollers and cries of a thousand wasting men. _It’s not real_ , he tried to convince himself, unable to face the chaos. _It‘s all naught but a dream_. 

Then, through the anarchy, he heard someone sing.

It was melodic, sad, a voice he had heard before in another dream, one that felt ancient. It was a voice that was both familiar and foreign. Wrung with grief and drenched in sorrow, it sang in anguish and in regret so that Jon was tempted to tears. It was like a light amidst the heat of battle; it was blood upon snow. It did not belong in a world tainted by war or madness. 

Uncovering his ears, he was relieved to find that the voice drowned out the screams.

Slowly, Jon found himself following the sound of it. The waters that had before only brushed his ankles turned knee-deep, and as he waded further the moving streams reached his chest. When he looked closely, he saw that rubies were floating upon the surface, some sinking to the bottom until they disappeared entirely from sight. He felt as if the red stones were a warning, screaming for him to go back.

 _But where to_? Jon thought to himself. _It is only a dream_... 

Although it didn’t _feel_ like one. 

The voice sang and sang, turning dimmer as he crept on closer. Jon struggled towards it, not wanting it to disappear. The water had turned scarlet now, not the colour of rubies but the dark hues of blood. The cries of war had grown quiet and they only echoed faintly in the distance. He could already feel the weigh of the silence upon his bones. 

Jon felt a chill run down his spine, and his fingers shook beneath the surface. _Don’t go_ , he almost called meekly to the voice. _Don’t leave me_! A wind blew through his hair, biting down on his damp skin that cried beneath the water’s chilling touch.

Now, he could hear nothing but the lull of moving water, for even the voice had grown silent. 

 _Turn back_. 

Jon crept on further, curiosity tugging him onward on a leash. He could see something in the distance- no, _someone,_ lifeless upon the surface. The pool had turned from cold to freezing, the chill of winter digging deep into his bones. Jon’s heart was beating as loudly as the drums of war, warning him to turn back.

 _Turn back_!

It was a man, Jon noted, or rather the body of one. He was floating peacefully in the river, facing the starless abyss that was the sky. Silver hair flowed freely with the moving water, mixing with the crimson of his own blood. As Jon approached him, he could see the gaping wounds of an open chest, and life leaving a set of sad, indigo eyes.

The man was whispering the name of a woman, a name that was dying upon his lips. 

Then, horror dawned upon Jon, and he felt as though he was choking. He could not breathe at the sight, as he at last came to realise what was unfolding before him. Suddenly, wanted nothing more than to leave, but when he began to back away he found that there was no ground beneath his feet, and gasping he plummeted beneath the surface.

Struggling he sunk down into the black, eternal abyss.

The taste of blood filled his mouth, stung in his throat and burned his lungs. He was gasping, kicking and twisting in between flowing waters that had turned into cruel tides.  He could only feel himself sinking further into the darkness and the cold, helpless and at complete mercy to the haunting waters, until–

Until he had last woke up, gasping.

There were immediately hands upon him, shaking him lightly as he struggled to retain his breath. “ _Jon_!” Someone was calling his name, slapping his shoulders and arm. “Jon, snap out of it! We won, Jon! We won!“

But he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t _breathe._ All he could see were haunting purple eyes, almost black... Suddenly, the stories Old Nan had told Robb and him as children came flooding back, and he remembered the exact words that had fell from the old woman’s lips clearly: 

 _Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knee in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman’s name_. 

Jon stared at the wall before him, unable to bring himself a grip to reality as he coughed and gasped. 

Then, he felt a soft muzzle brush beneath his palm, and at the sound of Ghost’s low whine he at last managed to relax; letting out a quivering breath that shook his bones. 

He whispered the name as well, his voice almost lost beneath his trembling gasps, to no one else but the night. Leaning back he sunk beneath heaps of soft pillows, feeling his body relax at the contact of a soft mattress. At last, he turned his head towards the figure that sat beside him, and was greeted by Tormund’s grinning face, red hair ablaze beneath the warm firelight.

The man laughed wickedly.

“We won, you bastard! We _won_!“ He wheezed, giving Jon another two shakes before breaking out into a wilder  laughter. “We won!”

At last, Jon found his voice, meek and hoarse: “What?”

”Your sister!” Tormund said it as if he himself could not believe it. “She came from the hill as  some kind of god with an army behind her! Those southerners came plummeting down and wiped out the Boltons as if they were _shit_. We were being slaughtered down there, but we won, Jon! We _won_!” 

It sounded strange to him, and Jon struggled to believe it. _Victory_? But then it suddenly dawned upon him that he was lying upon a mattress, buried beneath heaps of furs and blankets, bandages wrapped around his open wounds. His legs ached, his arms screamed, but he was _alive_. Looking around, he was surprised to find that recognised the room. He had seen those stones before, stared out that window. It was–

His room. 

The furniture had been moved, his  bed was pressed against a different wall but it was _his_ room. The room his father had assigned for him, the room where Jon had kept all of his lord father’s gifts of fine clothes and toys, even though he had been nothing but bastard son. A room that had been the only thing Jon had ever been able to call his own. 

And it felt as unfamiliar to him as the South. As if it didn’t recognise him, and he did not recognise it in return. 

“What happened?” Jon was grateful that Tormund immediately understood. The wildling shifted upon the stool beside his bed, staring at the wall with a thoughtful look. 

“The horses came trampling over the men, wiping them out within seconds. I saw you fall off your wolf. You just... closed your eyes and fell. I thought you died.” He sniffed. “I picked you up myself, carried you here when the battle was done. Only when you started moaning like a little girl did I realise you were still alive–“

”Where’s Sansa?” Jon asked, memories flooding through his mind. They had been surrounded – he had seen Sansa upon the hill, crowned by the sun’s fallen light. “Where is she?  I need to speak with her—“ he began to rise, but Tormund was quick to push him back.

”She’s taking care of stuff.” He said, and nothing more. Jon was confused. “I’ll go get Davos. He’s gonna wanna talk with you...” but before he could leave Jon grabbed his wrist gently so that the older man was forced to turn. 

“How many did we lose?”

Tormund stared at him for a long time, saying nothing. At last, he shrugged out of Jon’s grip, wordlessly exiting the room with heavy steps, leaving Jon all alone in strained silence. He closed his eyes, feeling pain tighten in his heart, and hoped that the morning would bid better. He could already imagine the numbers – the great losses. They had fought hard, but only a few must’ve been able to tarry on for so long...

His head was pounding. He felt no victory but gloom, as if he had not won but lost. Although he lay within the confines of Winterfell, a place that should have felt homely and tender, he felt no comfort with the absence of his siblings and father. Knowing that Robb was not there with him, that father was not sitting in silence by the Weirwood tree singing a prayer in his head,  it all felt unfamiliar. As if he was not truly at , that was nothing more than a distant dream. 

Winterfell had died long ago. It had died with father, and Robb, and all those who were lost.

Ghost whined lowly beside him, and opening his eyes Jon peered down to stare at the wolf. The white fur was no longer smudged with blood, but the eyes were red all the same. Offering his right hand the wolf licked it, and Jon at last managed a smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, scratching Ghost behind his ear. “For everything.”

Ghost would not leave him. That was all Jon needed to know.

The sound of heavy footsteps turned his attention towards the door, where Ser Davos burst inside. He slammed it behind him, glaring at Jon with both faint anger and great relief. “I found you dead, then revived, now I judged you dead again and see that you are alive. Tell me, when will you let me rest?”

_‘When’_ was a good question. Jon knew not when. Turning his gaze away from the man and towards the fire in the distance, he stared at the licking flames a dazed expression. “How many did we lose?” 

Ser Davos was silent for a moment, and Jon felt anger wash over him. He turned to the old man with a glare: 

“Why is it that people refuse to tell me everything?” He asked hotly. “It’s as if they’re scared of how I’ll react. First it was Sansa– she never once told me she had sent a letter to the Arryns, bidding them to help us, nor did she tell me that they had accepted. Had she told me I would have waited a day more and marched against the Boltons with a larger army!” Jon waited for Davos to answer him but the man did not. ”Then it’s Tormund– he refuses to tell me how many we lost – as if I don’t _know_ the numbers are great! And _you_! I thought that you of all people at least would!”

He didn’t realise he was crying until he felt the hot tears run down his throat. Choking on his final words, Jon turned away, embarrassed that Davos had to see him in such a vulnerable state. He had not cried since... when was the last time he had cried? 

His mind wandered to a woman he used to love, whose hair had been kissed by fire. He had looked into her eyes as she had died, and thinking of her he nearly wept harder. Biting down the bile in his throat Jon harshly rubbed his eyes, drying the tears before turning back to Davos, who had stood in complete stillness the entire time. 

The silence was tense, and Jon felt guilty for having spoken so harshly. Sighing deeply, he ran a hand through his hair, feeling how his whole body ached at the simple movement. The sound of footsteps approached him, and slowly the Onion Knight sat down upon the stool beside his bed. 

“I won’t lie, the numbers are ugly.” Davos finally said. Jon was grateful that, at the very least, Davos had decided to settle with the truth. “But I did not come here to talk about how many are dead. I came here to speak to you about your brother.” 

Jon’s gaze shot up, and wide-eyed he stared at Davos as if the man had grown two heads. “Rickon? Is he–“

”Alive.” Davos finished gravely, looking away as if he feared the reaction in Jon’s eyes. “A bit... uneasy, but alive.” The way he had  _said_ it, the gleam of sweat that reflected upon the old man’s forehead left Jon feeling anxious. 

“ _Uneasy_?” Jon repeated, not sure whether he wanted Davos to explain.

The knight swallowed. “Your sister has tried to speak with him but he doesn’t acknowledge her. He doesn’t recognise her. All that he says is _Shaggydog_ , and he whispers it to no one but himself.” A wave of sadness washed over the knight’s face, and he appeared older than his age. Jon understood. 

“You think he’s mad.” 

“I think he is scarred... and scared.” Ser Davos corrected, shifting on his seat. “And I’m sure the right words of comfort will get him back to his feet... though only from someone he recognises.”

Jon shook his head. “If he doesn’t recognise Sansa, what makes you think he’ll recognise me?” He loved Rickon, he _did_ , and he wanted to see his brother, but there was no saying that the little child he remembered was still the same. Jon had loved all of his siblings, even envied them a little bit, but Arya had been the only one whom he had ever truly cared for. The little girl had been the only light accessible to him during the gloom that was his childhood – but she was no longer with him. It was only Sansa and Rickon; both who had changed so much.  

Jon wondered whether Arya was still same, if she still lived that is. 

”... there is another issue that needs to be addressed.” Ser Davos started slowly, shifting when Jon directed his attention back towards him. “The people have been talking — the Mormonts say that it is vital that the Starks take back their seat as wardens of the North.”

Jon nodded, deep in his thoughts. “Of course,” he said hoarsely. “Rickon is the heir by rights... but if he is not fit to rule the title belongs to Sansa... yes, Sansa would make a great lady...”

”Jon.”

”... she was always good with manners and studies. Will there be a ceremony? Is that why you want me to speak with Rickon?” A thousand thoughts wearied his mind, but he had to do _something_. “ I’ll do it now–“ he began to rise but was pushed back harshly by Davos, who stared down with stone set eyes. 

”Jon,” he said sternly. “I’m not finished.”

Ghost sniffed beside him, raising his head so that it rested upon Jon’s lap. Jon was silent, unsure what was to come next, a thousand worried flickering through his mind. 

“Other Northern lords have already been summoned to Winterfell. Many argue that there shall be no lord of the North but a _king_ ,” Davos paused, staring at Jon with hard eyes. “The Mormonts claim the title to be yours, and they say they’ve found proof of it.”

 

 

 

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

 

 

 

Daenerys woke up, startled, by the sound of screaming. 

Breathless in the night she listened closely to it in the dark, and startled as she recognised the voice. Panic seized her heart, and scrambling from her bed she ran towards the door and into the open hall, the hard stones cold against her bare feet.

The heavy boots of guards rung as drums against the cold, stone floor, but the screams echoed even louder. Unthinking she sprinted blindly onward,  following the sound, not aware of where she went. 

Although she knew where it would lead her.

When she reached Rhaenys’ room the door was already wide open, and a handful of her Dothraki men and Unsullied stood near it, nervously peeking inside, unsure of whether to enter. Passing them all with her head held high she carefully slipped inside, surprised to find that the room was bathed in complete darkness.

Rhaenys hated the dark. She could never sleep without a fire.

The doors leading to the balcony were wide open, and outside Daenerys could hear Rhaegal crying, longing to reach his distressed rider. The sound of his heavy wings stirred the still air, blowing in harsh winds through the opening.

Rhaenys was upon her bed, dark hair disheveled and eyes wide with madness. Her bosom heaved as she struggled for breath, and clutching her hand was Daario, calling her name over and over again.

But the princess did not look at him. She stared at the cold fireplace before her.

Swiftly, Daenerys strode towards her, quickly taking her niece’s hand into her own, flinching at the contact. Her skin was as cold as ice. “Rhaenys,” she called softly, brushing a hand through the coiled hair, casting Daario a quick glance. The man was quick to understand, and quickly slipped his own hand from the princess’. “Rhaenys-“

Rhaenys shook her head, gasping as she clutched onto Daenerys’ hand, the grip tightening so that Daenerys had to force back a wince. “A dream–“ she breathed, burying her face in Daenerys’ silver hair. “It was a dream—“

She said nothing more, but Daenerys understood well enough. She, too, was familiar with dreams and their horrors. Too often she had seen her son’s face, amethyst eyes and pale hair a breathless contrast to his deep skin. Once she had seen him full grown, tall and magnificent, mounted upon a dark stallion and riding over the narrow sea. A silver braid had whipped behind him, and with him came the cries of a thousand Dothraki. 

But her sweet dreams would always turn rotten and twisted. Before she knew it, the great braid behind his back had wrapped itself around his neck, choking him of his life. Fire had spewed from his mouth, his bronze skin morphed into scales, and the cries of a man turned into the shrieks of a dragon. The lively image of her son crumbled, and when she had woken up calling out his name he was dead again. 

Daenerys snapped back to reality when Rhaegal screeched outside, the poor dragon calling for his rider. He could sense Rhaenys’ stress, that much Daenerys knew. Gently, the queen stroked the back of Rhaenys’ head, carefully guiding the princess to look into her eyes: 

“Tell me what you saw.”

Rhaenys shook her head, eyes screwed shut. Whipping her head to the side Daenerys ordered for Daario and the guards that had entered the room to leave. The Unsullied obeyed without question, but a moment of hesitation passed before the sellsword’s eyes before begrudgingly he obeyed, shutting the door behind him with a loud thud. 

Only then did Daenerys turn back to Rhaenys. “Rhaenys,” she said softly, planting a kiss upon the princess’ forehead. “Rhaenys, tell me what you saw —“

”It was only a dream,” the princess said, at last opening her eyes, shaking her head. “A dream — only a dream...”

Daenerys shook her head, grabbing Rhaenys’ hands and holding onto them tightly. “Dreams can be more than that. _My_ dreams come true.” Her voice was stern. “Rhaenys, _tell me_ what you saw.”

”A woman,” Rhaenys whispered, her voice almost lost in the night. When she turned to face Daenerys her indigo eyes were full of fright and tears. “I saw a woman, lying in a pool of her own blood. She was weeping, and there were roses all around her, dead and black. She was talking to a man–“ the princess gasped, “– she was talking to a man and she said a name.”

Daenerys’ eyes hardened. “What was the name?”

This time tears at last spilled down Rhaenys’ beautiful face, and her lips quivered when she spoke again. In the distance, the dragons cried in the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of the confirmation of the new HBO series: The House of the Dragon, I finally found the will to write again. I admit, my lack of interest in writing this story increased as months of GoT’ absence lengthened (& not to mention the 6th book is still unfinished!!) But I can (hopefully) safely say that my interest has returned with these exciting news!  
> I am a little saddened that Bloodmoon was cancelled, since early Starks and a White Walker origin would have been really interesting to see. Anyhow, I can for sure say that I am wayyy more excited for a Targaryen prequel(favouritism)
> 
> Anyways...Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!<33 ty for all the kudos and comments, you guys are the sweetest


	18. Hindsight

The room was dark. 

Each step rung like thunder; alike the first horn of dawn. Dusk was falling, yet there was no setting sunlight to cast shadows upon the walls. Only a chill, colder than frost. 

Had he not already been aware of there being another person in the room, Jon would have turned back. There was merely an eerie stillness; a calm in the breath of night and not a whisper of life.

He frowned. Peering into the darkness, Jon waves the torch in his hand so that the dim firelight danced on the stone tiles. 

He immediately found what he had been searching for. 

Further away, hunched and pressed against the corner like a wounded dog, sat a shivering figure. The person was small, _frail_ , and barely noticeable in the murkiness that swallowed him. Jon’s heart beat to the rhythm of frantic breathing. In the gloom he managed to find his voice: 

“Rickon?” 

The figure stopped shrivelling, haggard breaths suddenly drawn still. A part of Jon wished for it all to be a dream, for although he loved his brother dearly, there was no denying the damage that had already been wrought into the mind of someone so young. 

Death would be a kinder fate. 

The figure stirred and slowly turned to face Jon. Wide eyes, terrified and Tully blue, peered up at him through the darkness. _Eyes that do not belong to a boy_ , Jon thought to himself sadly. _Eyes that have seen the darker sides of war_... 

Time stood still between them. Jon dared not move. 

When was the last time he had seen those eyes? It seemed to long ago. _It was long ago_ , Jon had to remind himself, although six years was merely a breath of time to the ageing world. 

Then a voice pierced through the abyss, meek and confused. It sounded hopeful – hesitant _–_ but above all things startled. It was nearly lost to the frost of winter. 

”Father?” 

Rickon at last moved from the position he had been sitting in for gods knows how long. In the warm firelight, his hair was bright red, and his fingers shook as he leaned forward on his knees. 

There was still a faint softness; the touch of innocence and youth; although much had been marred. Jon knew not whether to feel worried or relieved. All that he felt was sadness as the boy he had known as his brother crawled onto his feet and towards him; a faint gleam of joy shimmering in his hollow-blue eyes. 

”No,” Jon managed to breathe out. There was a tightness to his voice. “No, Rickon, it’s _me_.” He stretched out a hand, smiling sadly. “ _Jon_. Your brother...”

Rickon stared at him for a long time. His eyes were as wild as winter tides: Feral and unreadable. 

Then, his face darkened, and he drew back as a wild animal. “No.. He left!” Rickon said, and suddenly he was no longer a walking skeleton but a boy of nine. “He left, they all did! Jon and Robb– father and mother! Arya and Sansa! They left and they never came back!”  

Behind him, Sansa shifted so that the bells on her belt rang. Jon raised his other hand, bidding her to remain still.

He had expected nothing else, although he had hoped otherwise. 

Rickon was glaring at him. There was not the fury of predators in his eyes, only the raw fear of prey. 

Inhaling softly, Jon lowered down and bent his knee. With a smile that he could only hope was coaxing he stretched out his hand again. “Take my hand, Rickon.” He whispered, struggling to hold the cold gaze radiating from those shaken, blue eyes. 

Rickon did not move. A minute or two passed before he even twitched. Jon did not care, he would wait. He would wait until dusk would turn to night and the night into dawn. He would wait until the sun would rise and set a second time. He would _wait_. 

Then, the boy took a hesitant step forward. His eyes were set, his fingers twitched before him, and each step was achingly slow. It mattered not. Jon held his hand stretched out through it all. 

Bare feet echoed softly and in the darkness all that Jon could hear were soft _tap, tap, taps_ against cold, stone floors. He held his breath through it all, afraid that even the slightest stir would fright the boy away.

Rickon was within arm’s reach now and hesitated still. The time that stood between them was aching.

 Slowly, the boy raised a shaking hand and reached towards Jon in return. His blue eyes quivered, as if he expected Jon to dissolve before him. 

 _I never should have left_ , Jon thought to himself bitterly, feeling how anguish tugged at his heart. _I should have done my duty as a brother. Followed Robb into war — rescued Sansa and Arya from the lions’ claws — protected Rickon and Bran.  
_

 _I should have avenged father_. 

A wolf was not a wolf without its pack. A bitter taste settled upon his tongue. When Jon was a boy, his father had told him of their ways and of their words. What it meant to be a Northerner and what it meant to be a Stark. 

 _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_. He could almost laugh at the irony of it. What were the odds? The lone wolf still lived, but the pack was dead.

Rickon’s fingers shook as he stretched them forward. Jon closed his eyes, feeling how his heart seemed to leap in his chest. 

For a moment, neither of them moved. 

Then, Rickon’s hand clasped around his own.   
  


 

* * *

 

 

The silence was thick with tension. 

Outside, salt-water waves slammed against the sharp rocks below the balconies and dark clouds of rain hid the afternoon sky. 

Rhaenys had not left her bed. She had not the strength to. The night had passed, the day had blurred, and dusk was upon them again. Still, her dream was crystallised in her mind and all that she could think of was the _name_ that would not leave her be. 

Daenerya stood by the balcony door, staring out at the horizon and the two dragons that soared dangerously close to the waves. Her gaze was stern, the fire trapped within the amethyst stones blazing with intensity. She, too, was thinking.

Daario was the first to break the silence, having not spoken for hours: “We don’t know whether it was a foresight.” 

The silence that followed was scarily tense.

“No, not foresight.” Daenerys said from where she stood, at last turning to face them. She looked tired, but restless all the same. “ _Hindsight_.” 

Rhaenys visibly tensed from where she was sitting, the grip she had upon the sellsword’s hand tightening. Daario drowned: 

“Or that. My queen, it may have very well been a harmless dream—“

”No dreams are harmless,” Daenerys said, turning her gaze back outside to where the large beasts fluttered and screeched. “Mine certainly are not. I will not — _cannot_ ignore this.” 

”Alright,” Daario said, waving his other hand desperately. “Let us say that the dream was a hindsight. So what? The child must be long dead. They would have killed it the same way as they would have done you.” He paused, considering his words carefully. “We have heard _nothing_ of this child. The other lords of Westeros certainly have not, either. Will this stop you from retaking the throne you have sought after for so long?”

Daenerys visibly frowned, although it was not directed at anyone in particular. Rhaenys  shifted where she was sat upon the bed, still visibly shaken from the night. She appeared timid. Troubled. So unlike the fiery princess Essos had learned to both respect and love.

The dream had been vivid. It had felt less like a vision but more like a memory; as if she had been looking through someone else’s eyes. It was eerie. 

Frightening. 

” _Aegon_.” She said, indigo eyes wide. Daario and Dany turned to her and she was startled to find that they did not share her concern. “We have to get to Aegon—“

”Rhaenys—“ Daenerys began softly, but the princess was quick to come to her own defence: 

“He should never have gone alone!” Her voice nearly broke beneath the strain of her anguish. It was difficult to breathe. “He should never have _left_! He—“

”Has probably reached the North by now.” Daario said firmly, although his voice was soft. Gently, he placed a hand upon her shoulder, hoping to calm down the distress. “And he is not alone, Princess. He has his dragon to protect him.” 

It brought little comfort. The fear did not dissolve. Rhaenys knew not what she would do if harm came to him. If—

The mere thought of it – of silver hair stained crimson and empty eyes staring lifelessly at _nothing_ – made her stomach churn. 

Daenerys was quiet for a very long moment, deep in thought. Outside, one could hear the battles of cold tides. Then, she turned away towards the horizon. The dragons were gone. “We have no choice but to wait for an answer.” 

A steel knife cut through Rhaenys’ heart and she had to refrain herself from screaming. 

”Dany—“

”There is nothing we can do.” Daenerys said harshly. She looked tired. Her anger was directed at no one but herself. “He is far beyond our reach.” 

”So we simply wait?” Rhaenys whispered, biting away the rage that threatened to spill. “We do nothing but _wait_?” 

Amethyst eyes turned to her. Slowly, Daenerys approached her with firm steps, and there seemed to be a hot fire ablaze in her eyes. When she spoke, she did so quietly, but her voice was thunderous and strong: 

“ _No_. We have a kingdom to conquer.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see. About time I updated this thing(hehe). This is a short chapter, and hopefully the next one will be up soon.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed- sorry for the drastic delay<3 No worries, I have not forgotten this story.

**Author's Note:**

> If you see any grammar mistakes, don’t be afraid to let me know. English is not my first or second language and I would appreciate kind corrections ♡  
> 


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